


Dream a Bitter Style

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Enhances original, Canon - Fills plot hole(s), Canon - Non-canonical to good purpose, Canon - Outstanding AU/reinterpretation, Characters - Family Dynamics, Characters - Friendship, Characters - Good villain(s), Characters - New interpretation, Characters - Unusual relationship(s), Characters - Well-handled emotions, Drama, First Age, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Disturbing/frightening/unsettling, Plot - Good pacing, Plot - I reread often, Subjects - Culture(s), Subjects - Economics, Subjects - Politics, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Every word counts, Writing - Good use of humor, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s), Writing - Well-handled dialogue, Writing - Well-handled introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2007-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-26 01:21:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3831891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Lauron-Nama', part (two).  As a servant to Fingon in the court of Eithel Sirion, Glorfindel learns what is expected of him, what he must endure, and how he can turn it to his advantage.  Slash.  Adult rating has been applied for graphic sexual exploitation and coercion, drug and alcohol use, objectionable language, violence, brutality, and overall mature and very dark subject matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Frost

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

_Note: This is a continuation of the arc started in 'Never Speak Nor Sing'.  It_ _is indeed a very dark story, with questionable judgement, immoral sex, a vile prison, a near death experience, lying liars, numerous occurrences of blood, improvisational surgery,_ _and despicable behaviour all around.  It is canonical to a point: the overall timeline, geography, and character names follow the Silmarillion.  However, character action and fine details are very much AU, and therefore so is the story on the whole.  Most backstory and cultural/religious elements have been invented by me and have no canon basis whatsoever._

* * *

It was a cold fall morning on the brink of winter when Ninnan the kitchen girl finally agreed to take her dress off for Oropher. In exchange, she demanded two bags of loucoums, one bag of hard candy, six fresh apples (not the sort that had been sitting around in barrels in the kitchen for months), and a jar of wine. It took Oropher only three hours to scrounge up her price. He invited Glorfindel to join him, if not to see the spectacle then at least to talk over it in minute detail afterward. The invitation turned out to be a lucky one, as Ninnan had invited her friend Mellig. Neither party trusted the other to behave as planned.

Oropher had decided that an ideal place for undressing would be down on the riverbank. The outside air was frigid, smelling of ambient frost, but at least the riverbank involved no risk of being caught by Celeiros. He assured Ninnan that she could be as naked as she pleased, for as long as she pleased, with no worries. Ninnan only scowled in return, assuring him that she would have gladly accepted the risk of undressing behind a stack of barrels and grain sacks in the corner of the kitchen, where it was always warm and never windy. The scowl stayed firmly on her face the entire three-mile walk from the city gates to the riverbank slope. She clutched her shawl around her shoulders and grumbled with every damp, barefoot step.

Beside Ninnan walked Mellig, sour-faced at the prospect of having to spend an entire day on a cold riverbank with Oropher. Her skinny silhouette swayed in contrast to Ninnan's as a sapling contrasts with a well-grown tree. They complained to each other in snarls too quiet for Oropher to hear, occasionally pausing to make a production of rubbing their cold feet.

Glorfindel came last. He was wearing half the clothes he owned, and still he shivered in the biting wind. His hands were raw from holding his cape in place. His thin shoes were soaked through from the silvery wet ground. His whole body felt frozen. In the weeks since the first frosts came, he had started to suspect that Sindarin Elves did not feel the cold even half as acutely as he did. A gust of wind that chilled him like a fear seemed to have hardly any effect on Oropher. Ninnan and Mellig, though they complained so heartily, did not shake and chatter their teeth. Whether this was because the Sindar had evolved to live in the northern climate or because they simply did not mind extreme temperatures, Glorfindel did not know. He did know, however, that if such an intense cold ever came to Valmar, there would be panic and terror in the streets as clerics proclaimed it to be a sign of the End of the World. Valmar, like the kitchens, was always warm.

It took a long walk over a cold, windy plain, followed by a short walk down a cold but less windy slope, to get to the place Oropher had in mind. There was a clearing full of fallen trees at the bottom of a steep hill, so close to water level that the leaf-covered ground squished wetly underfoot. Oropher squished his way through the centre of the clearing, sat down on a fat, mossy log, and produced a jar of wine from the sack he carried. He pulled the top out and took a long swig.

"Oi!" shouted Ninnan. "That's mine, you promised!" She swatted at his hands where they grasped the bottle.

With a silly grin, Oropher reached into the sack again and pulled out a second jar, which he handed to Ninnan. Her eyes were clearly impressed as she took it, though she said nothing to encourage him. She sat down at his side, pulled the lid, and drank heavily.

Mellig sat next to Ninnan, and Glorfindel sat at Oropher's other side. Glorfindel pulled his feet up to perch on the log as he hugged his knees to his chest and shivered. With stiff fingers and clenched teeth, he managed a sip of Oropher's wine. It warmed him, but not nearly enough. He took another sip and pulled his cape up higher around his ears. Oropher began singing a dirty song about innocent milkmaids and unfaithful soldiers, the rhythm accentuated by the sloshing of his bottle.

Both Ninnan and Oropher were giggling by the time the wine was finished. Oropher turned to grin at Glorfindel, which was no easy task given that Ninnan had used her shawl to tie him to her bosom. "You don't think..." he said casually, "that maybe you and Mellig want to go for a walk down the bank?" Ninnan giggled again as he spoke.

Glorfindel looked warily at Mellig, who gazed back at him with a hopeful smile, and said, "Um..."

Mellig had become more jovial and courageous over the course of the wine drinking. She jumped down from the log and grabbed Glorfindel's sleeve, urging him to stand. "Come on," she said. "I feel like a walk." She half led, half dragged him back up the slope to an intersecting path that turned southward. Her warm hand slid down his sleeve and tried to find his, though he pulled it away. Behind them, Oropher and Ninnan howled with laughter at an unheard joke.

"Um," he asked, "which way are we going?"

"Over here," she said. "I know the way. I've been here before." She pointed ahead, hand framed by nettle leaves. 

The path was well-used and even, but Mellig still walked slowly. No matter how slow a pace Glorfindel kept, trying to stay behind her, she slowed to match him and stay exactly at his side, leaning ever closer so that their shoulders and elbows bumped as they walked. Glorfindel had shifted so close to the edge of the path that tree branches snagged and whipped his clothes, but Mellig still leaned closer. She put a hand on his back as she pointed to berries they could eat, or stumps full of sleeping bees.

Through it all, Glorfindel's mind raged to find an answer as to whether or not it would be acceptable to return her affections.

~

Eighty-seven years earlier, Amma had been born into the caste called _Mótallië_ ;Amárië Mótazyë was her proper name. It was not the absolute worst caste into which one could be born. Mótari were thankfully second from the bottom in the class hierarchy. It would have been worse to have been born into the _Lucolië_. But still a Mótar was low enough to have a plain, unremarkable life.

It was considered a crude thing by the Vanyar to work with one's hands, and this is exactly what Mótari did. They shaped stones and built houses, crafted silver or worked in smithies, wove fabric, sewed garments. Made paper. They were largely ignored by the higher members of society. They did not particularly matter. Their lives were lived behind a veil of ignorant secrecy, segregated to the point that some would boast of never having seen a _Mínar_ or _Thandyo_. But despite this, Mótari were still higher than Lucindor by virtue of the very important fact that they were allowed to own land and animals, and Lucindor were not.

Objectively, Lucindor and Mótari did very similar jobs, though Lucindor were usually on the lower end of the scale. They would quarry the stones, mine the silver, harvest flax, or chop wood. Some also acted as tenant farmers on the estates of wealthier land-owners, and some became low servants in middling households. Unlike the Mótari, who had a small bit of choice when it came to what they did in their lives, the Lucindor performed whatever tasks they were given. They were almost slaves, and only kept from being slaves through the kindness of their betters who preferred the softer term Lucindo to the hard title of _Mól_.

Amárië Mótazyë hated Lucindor. She had no choice; they were the only ones she was allowed to hate. A person was only allowed to look down upon those lower than herself, and the only people lower than Mótari were Lucindor and criminals. _Cemenduri_ and _Mancari_ at least had both Mótari and Lucindor below them, so they hated each one with a little less intensity. Mínari could look down on the Cemenduri and Mancari, and the Thandyor could look down on the Mínari, and the Tarathandyor could look down on the Thandyor. At each new, higher level, the hate turned to something more like disregard, or even pity. A Tarathandyo could not be expected to waste his time hating a Lucindo or Mótar, so he simply ignored them. Besides, he had no reason to hate. He was not pushed down and ruined by the weight of the hierarchy above him. The only thing better than a Tarathandyo was the King's Family itself, and that was a very small and light burden to carry.

But Amárië's hate was also for reasons of family history. Her great-grandfather Ezgo had been a Lucindo, from a long line of Lucindor that had originally been cursed by Imin at Cuiviénen. But when he was young he went to Ingwë to beg pardon for the sins of his fathers, climbing the long road up Taniquetil on bleeding hands and knees in humility and servitude, kicked and spat upon by the Thandyor for even daring to touch their mountain. He lay before Ingwë with his head on the ground and wept for forgiveness. And Ingwë agreed to pardon him and raise his status to Mótar, but only on the condition that he convert to the new religion. Ingwë was a Valadávar, a servant of Manwë, following the new religion that he himself had started. Ezgo was a Yaranénor, standing by the old beliefs that his family had followed since awakening. But at the prospect of losing his burdensome title of Lucindo, he converted without hesitation.

When Ingwë allowed him to stand, he stood up with a new faith and a new name. Ezgo was a Yaranénon Lucindo name. His new Valadávan Mótar name was Maringor. He walked down the mountain as Maringor Mótazyo, and was spat upon a little less.

He remembered every word that Ingwë had taught him, and followed his new religion exactly. There was a Yaranénon tattoo on his shoulder blade, of a ring of stars at the crest of a wave, but he burned it with a hot ember. Valadáva did not allow tattoos, and least of all tattoos of objectionable symbols. After that he always wore a shirt, even in bed, because Valadáva did not allow scars to be shown. He married a good Valadávan girl and lived in a small Valadávan house in a Valadávan area of the city with his five Valadávan children. He went to the towers every day and prayed to Manwë, and just Manwë, as Ingwë told him. The only Valadávan task he ever failed to do was give money to the Lucindorin beggars. Now that he was above them, he allowed himself the luxury of hating them. It was a wonderful thing, to be better than someone. Because of Ingwë he was better than a whole caste of someones. It made life easier to know that he could look down on others they way so many looked down on him.

So the family lived unchangingly within the rigid rules and brittle customs of Valmar and Taniquetil. Each person knew his place, and if he forgot, he would be soon reminded. He knew what he could do, and whom he could marry. Lucindor could marry Lucindor. Mótari could marry Mótari, or possibly Cemenduri. Mínari could marry Mancari or Thandyor, and Thandyor could marry Tarathandyor or even sometimes someone from the King's Family. Mótari could not marry Mínari, which was why there had been such a scandal when Amárië's sister Antára had married the music teacher Elindyo Mínazyo. She was forced to give up her family and religion, which her great-grandfather had sacrificed so much to achieve. Elindyo was a Yaranénor. She was not sorry to take up his life, if turning her back on her own meant she could move into a large house with carpets and more than two rooms, and never have to work with her hands again. She changed her name to Aldamizdë after that. A Yaranénon name.

But worse still than a Mótar with a Mínar would be a Lucindo with anyone but a Lucindo. Such a match would in fact be forbidden by law, rather than just frowned upon by ancient custom. It left Glorfindel in an uncertain place, trying to decide whether Mellig was a forbidden Lucissë or an acceptable Mótarë, or something entirely different. And would he be able to hold her hand anyhow, if he did not intend to marry her?

The caste system of Eithel Sirion was not as concrete as its equivalent in Valmar. It existed just as fiercely, and just as surely, but its rules were secrets. The Noldor did not write laws that kept workers in their places, segregated from lords, but the rule was understood just the same. No-one called the Sindar "Lucindor", but no-one would dispute the remarkably similar status either. The Noldorin caste system was nameless, as if making no verbal distinction between classes somehow apologised for the lack of equality. At least in Valmar a serf was called a serf. In Eithel Sirion, a serf was called a citizen like everyone else, and only treated like a serf.

It was obvious to Glorfindel that, in Valmar, all Sindar would have been Lucindor. But what concerned him was that they had been ignobly relegated to this caste regardless of whether it was theirs by birthright. Mellig, like Oropher, could have very easily been born into the Cemenduri. It was impossible to tell without impolitely asking outright.

Almost as long as they had been walking, Glorfindel had been trying to steer the conversation toward family history. Mellig refused to follow his lead. She answered in one word or two, then changed the subject back to flowers and clouds with a dreamy sigh. Then she adjusted her dress. Always over her chest, always tugging and smoothing the fabric or toying with the lacing until Glorfindel had to look elsewhere. No matter how much she fussed and adjusted, the situation of her dress only grew worse, showing more and covering less. For all her worry, the lacing was starting to come undone. Glorfindel politely pretended not to notice.

The dress slipped off one shoulder as he helped her climb up a rocky ledge. She did not bother to fix it. The other shoulder dipped precariously as she took tumbling, tripping steps down a steep incline, landing firmly against Glorfindel's chest. It was a lucky thing, he thought, that she fell safely into him instead of into a tree. He wrapped his arms around her naked shoulders to keep her from shivering in the wind. Her shawl had disappeared somewhere along the path.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Mm-hmm," she said. She nodded and let her head droop down to rest on his shoulder. "Thank you for catching me. Lucky I hit you instead of a tree, isn't it?"

"I thought so, too."

With a grand shiver, she looked up at the greying sky. "Awfully cold today, hmm?"

He held her a bit tighter. "Are you very cold?"

"Only a bit," she said. "I'm not so bad right now. Maybe we can walk together?" Twining an arm around his waist, she looked up at him with a smile.

"That won't be so easy," he said. "I think perhaps we should go find your shawl. And you can tie your dress. See, it's come open at the top."

"I don't mind," she said with a coy smirk.

He looked down at her, puzzled, and she looked back with half-closed eyes, tilting her chin upward just slightly.

~

Some hours later, when Glorfindel was back in Fingon's room waiting for Fingon to be finished in the bath, his mind battled back and forth over whether or not Mellig had meant for him to kiss her. It was ridiculous to kiss somebody you hardly knew, but then Sindar on the whole did fairly ridiculous things with an alarming frequency. Glorfindel had spent enough time with Oropher to know this. Also, Sindarin girls had far less shame and dignity than Vanyarin girls. He had learned this from Oropher too, who liked to tell horrifying stories.

But, he reasoned, if Mellig had wanted to kiss him then she would have done so herself rather than waiting for his lead. Instead, when he suggested they return to find Oropher and Ninnan, she laced her dress back up, fished her shawl out from under a bush, and marched stonily back to the clearing. She did not so much as look at him for the rest of the afternoon, which was a clear indication that kissing was no longer a possibility. But it was only the first time they had seen each other. He would have to ask Oropher about the proper Sindarin thing to do for next time.

Across the room, Fingon shifted his position, churning the bathwater. A little wave slopped over the edge of the tub. "I think I'm done," he said, and Glorfindel brought him his bath sheet.

In the months since arriving at Eithel Sirion, Glorfindel had learned four very important things about Fingon. The first was that he was a person who thrived on routine. Every day was immaculately planned. The evenings now followed a strict schedule. After a mostly silent and always awkward supper with Fingolfin, Fingon retreated to his room for his nightly bath, which was immediately followed by Glorfindel's bath. While Glorfindel bathed, Fingon would sit by the fire and write in his book of hours, until Glorfindel was free to comb his hair. Then they had reading and writing lessons. Fingon would drink a pot of bitter herb tea. Halfway through the night, he would wake up to relieve himself of all that tea. Except on those rare occasions when there was a guest for supper who required Fingon's attentions of an evening, the nights passed unchangingly.

"You're too quiet," Fingon said as he dried himself. "And not in your normal quiet way. You're too quiet in a thinking way. What did you do today that requires so much concentration?"

This was the second thing about Fingon. He was hazardously observant. He could recognise a lie before it was told, the mere hint or threat of a lie, and seemed to know exactly when somebody was concealing something. He then went about extracting that information, piece by agonising piece, until he was satisfied with the whole story. Glorfindel had learned by now that it was better to confess early on than suffer the trial of prodding questions.

"I was at the riverbank with Oropher. Oroferno."

"Why?" Fingon asked. "It's cold and muddy out there. You'd be better off staying indoors. What were you doing that required the secrecy of the riverbank?"

Anyone other than Fingon would have been satisfied with the riverbank location, assuming that Oropher and Glorfindel were there for the simple joy of being there.

"Oroferno bribed one of the kitchen girls to take her dress off for him," Glorfindel said quickly and quietly, letting the words slip away into the night. "I didn't see. He only asked me to come because he was scared to be with her by himself." Then he hastily added, "It was his idea."

"Ah," said Fingon. He dropped his towel, and pulled on his velveteen robe. "Well I should hope that, in the future, you can find better uses for your time than helping your little friend look at naked kitchen girls. He is a poor influence on you. Are you ever a good influence on him? Do you ever do things that are your idea?"

Glorfindel shook his head. "No. He thinks my ideas are boring."

"But boring will not get you into trouble," Fingon said with a smug smile. "Remember that."

"Am I in trouble?"

"No, not this time. But don't do it again." The last words were tacked on almost as an afterthought, a needless warning, as he left the bathing room and shut the door behind him.

Glorfindel undressed as quickly as he could manage once Fingon was gone, hating to be naked in the cold stone room with its cold stone air. He could see his breath like heatless smoke in front of his face. At the beginning of autumn, when the air had started to turn cool, Fingon had given him two sets of warm underclothes. He wore both of them nearly every day. This made undressing something of an ordeal, removing and neatly folding seven separate layers. The only compensation was that the effort of pulling off all those pieces warmed him enough to last until he was safely in the bath water.

He washed his body and his hair, slowly enough to allow Fingon time to write in his little book, but not so slowly that the bath water had time to cool too much. Then, after drying himself, he dressed again, though in only one set of underclothes under his top mantle. The rest of his clothes would stay where they were until morning. He spent every night with Fingon now. Every morning, he dressed in this dressing room.

He did not hate Fingon as much as he thought he would, or as much as he knew he should. It was surprisingly easy to grow accustomed to strange circumstances when he had no other choice. He needed somebody to look after him in Amma's absence. Fingon was the only possibility. Sometimes it shocked him, how little he had come to care when Fingon kissed him, or stroked his cheek and hair. It surprised him, how he no longer felt discomfort at sharing Fingon's bed. It had become part of the routine. Like drinking tea and pissing in the dark. He and Fingon had an understanding.

As he came through the door from the bath room, Fingon looked up at him with a brief smile. Then returned to the writing book. He had already combed his own hair, and was finishing off a mug of tea. Glorfindel sat beside him, back to the fire, knees hugged close to his chest. It was easiest to keep warm that way.

"I am nearly done," Fingon said. "Would you like to read tonight?"

Glorfindel nodded, and stretched to reach a book down from the shelf along the wall: the Valaquenta. Fingon's Valaquenta book was different from the one the clerics read aloud as he and his grandfather prayed at the towers in Valmar. Fingon's book gave almost equal status to all the Valar, with Manwë only slightly ahead of the others. It followed neither the preferences of the Vanyar nor the Noldor, who praised Varda, if anyone. But still the story was mostly the same, and it was the book that Glorfindel liked best. Every night he practiced reading to Fingon.

He read, "There was Eru, the One, who in Arda is called Ilúvatar..."

Fingon continued to write as Glorfindel read. He wrote more slowly than usual, pausing to think for several moments at a time as lines of concentration creased his forehead. The tip of his quill tapped against his lip. He looked up from his pages and watched Glorfindel with a dark, even stare.

Faltering in his reading, Glorfindel looked back.

"Please continue," Fingon said quietly. "I'm only thinking. Don't mind me."

Glorfindel continued reading, a little more slowly than before. "But now Ilúvatar sat and hearkened, and for a great while it seemed good to him..."

Fingon wrote another few words, deliberate in their crude slowness. The nib of his quill squeaked loudly across the page.

"...came into the heart of... Melkor to..." 

A hard scratch of the quill caused Glorfindel to look up. "What are you writing?"

Fingon stared back at him with unapologetic eyes. "Would you like to read it?" He held out the little book, and Glorfindel took it. "Start at the top of this page."

"Il..." Glorfindel read. "Il... ry... þ nt mvoin...? a y'tn... **M** m'lv **LF** nynn. **N** pln ml **T** r... r n lvn. Istn... rc **U** n v'rna... o **RSS**..." He frowned at the book, and at Fingon. "What is this?"

"Can you read it?"

Glorfindel studied the page again. "No. None of it. I mean I can read the letters, but they don't make real words."

"Good," Fingon said, and he took the book back with a smile. "It's written in a sort of code, which I hope should prevent any casual readers from understanding my hour-books."

"Why?"

Fingon grinned at him, a dangerous grin. "Have you never wanted to be secretive?"

The tone in Fingon's voice, the cold edge to his words, made Glorfindel shudder inwardly. He quickly reopened the Valaquenta book, staring down at its safe title page. 'VALAQUENTA,' it said, in perfect black and gold cadels. Below the title was a gold and silver star, lined in black. At the bottom of the page, something that he had never fully noticed before, were the words, "aN' n-a 7, ML **HL** ," then below that, " **FANF** i." They were written in the place where, in all other books, the scribe's name would be.

A piece of the book's safety slipped away as a sudden recognition came to him. He ran a finger over the letters.

Fingon shifted forward. "I'll take that back now," he said, quietly but with a hidden menace.

Glorfindel held the book's golden edges firmly. " **FANF** i. That seems almost like..."

"Give me the book, Laurefindil."

"You wrote this," Glorfindel continued.

Fingon clasped his hands over Glorfindel's, prising apart his grip and pulling the book away. "That is absurd," he said. He clapped the cover shut and slid the book back onto the shelf where it belonged.

"It's your code where the scribe's name should be," said Glorfindel.

"Perhaps it's a mark of possession."

Glorfindel frowned. "It's your name. **FANF** i. That must be Findekáno Aresto Nolofinwion. Isn't it?" In his time at Eithel Sirion, Glorfindel had learned to be observant and prying, too. "Isn't it?"

Fingon was perched on the balls of his feet. He rocked himself slowly back and forth, hands pressed together at the level of his mouth, fingertips drumming against fingertips. It might have been a nervous pose, or thoughtful. This was the third thing about Fingon. There was no way to guess what he thought or felt. He had a favourite habit of keeping his outward appearance at odds with his inner emotions, appearing indifferent while his heart seethed. He once told Glorfindel that it was impossible to best an enemy who could infuriate or frighten, because the sight of emotional weakness gave him power. But an enemy whose jeers fell disregarded would be wrong-footed when his strategy failed. Glorfindel believed this.

"You really are very clever," he murmured. He pressed his fingertips over his mouth and exhaled with a hiss.

"You did write it, then," Glorfindel said. Fingon nodded, and Glorfindel stared with hardening eyes. He began to have a thought. It was strange, he said to himself, for a person like Fingon to have written his own copy of the Valaquenta. It was troublesome for a person like Fingon, who made a show of flouting the laws of Valinor, to perform this task. But most of all it was insulting and angering that a person like Fingon would think himself fit to do such a thing.

"Why Manwë?" Glorfindel asked.

Fingon's eyebrows twitched in confusion. "...Sorry, what?"

"Why Manwë?" Glorfindel repeated. "Your version of the story- why does it favour Manwë?"

"Is there a good reason why I should not? He is the highest Lord of Arda." With a small cough, Fingon turned to the fire. "You tell me so yourself often enough. Daily. Twice daily."

Glorfindel scowled, feeling the burn of anger slowly rise. "Other Noldor pray to Varda, if they pray at all. Every one I met."

"Other Noldor do many curious things," Fingon said with a shrug. "I have personally seen them write sonnets to carved wooden ducks, fill their shoes with vinegar, try to lighten their hair with dubious potions... jump off of ice floes into freezing water... I am not that sort of Noldo, you may have realised."

The flippancy in Fingon's voice only fed Glorfindel's anger. Fingon cared for no-one as much as himself, nor did he think so highly of anything else as he did his own cleverness. It was arrogance, not faith, that steered his pen, and it made Glorfindel sick to think of that blasphemy.

"What right have you?" Glorfindel asked, quietly poisonous.

"What right have I what?" said Fingon.

"What right have you to retell your own versions of the stories of the Valar? How can you do that? Outside of true faith, taking the name of Manwë and..."

"Arrogating your personal Vala?" Fingon finished. "I'm sorry, I hadn't realised he belonged to only one way of thinking."

"You can't do that!" shouted Glorfindel. "You can't rewrite the Valaquenta! It's sinful and... and unlawful!"

Fingon sighed and leaned back on his hands. "Laurefindil, there are hundreds of versions of the Valaquenta, all written by equally devoted scribes, all bent, intentionally or not, by their personal beliefs..."

"But how can you think you have the right to-"

"How can _I_ think?" Fingon interrupted. "So your grievance is with me in connection to Manwë, not necessarily my interpretation. Had I written a book on warfare, or had some unknown written this book, your outrage would hardly be the same, would it?"

Fingon had a way of looking at him that made Glorfindel feel like a small child, stupid and vulnerable and alone. "Um," he said, and cringed down into the firelight, seeming to shrink in his own eyes. "I didn't... mean..."

"Then what did you mean?"

Glorfindel concentrated on staring at his hands, and gave no answer.

"I don't appreciate you insinuating such things," Fingon said sharply. "Nor do I appreciate you shouting at me. Don't think to do it again."

"I won't," murmured Glorfindel.

With a single, silent nod, Fingon stood. He crossed the room in a few long steps, dropping his bath robe in the middle of the floor before he climbed naked behind the bed curtains. Glorfindel remained seated by the fire, dutifully waiting for the call that would surely come once Fingon's wrath had abated.

"Are you coming to bed?"

Unseen, Glorfindel crossed the room, picking up Fingon's robe and draping it and his own across the back of a chair. He climbed into bed in his underclothes and thought to himself that this was the fourth thing about Fingon: he hated to be alone.

* * *

_Glorfindel's Valaquenta readings are quoted directly from The Silmarillion_


	2. Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Lauron-Nama', part (two). As a servant to Fingon in the court of Eithel Sirion, Glorfindel learns what is expected of him, what he must endure, and how he can turn it to his advantage. Slash. Adult rating has been applied for graphic sexual exploitation and coercion, drug and alcohol use, objectionable language, violence, brutality, and overall mature and very dark subject matter.

The benefit of wearing seven layers of clothing was that Glorfindel found it very easy to smuggle books out of Fingon's room of a morning. After breakfast, once Fingon had left to go about his daily business, Glorfindel would tuck one of the thinner volumes between crossing wraps of fabric and head down to the lower stairwell to meet Oropher. Quenya speaking lessons had progressed to Quenya reading lessons. On pleasant days, when they could go outside to scratch letters into the dirt with sticks, there were writing lessons as well. Whatever Glorfindel learned from Fingon, he passed on to Oropher.

Oropher, highly satisfied with his new literacy, had taken to calling Glorfindel "LL" as a short form of "Laurefindil". Glorfindel in return called Oropher "Quezo," a word that had no real meaning but was particularly enjoyable for the fact that Oropher could not pronounce it. The best he could manage so far was "Cuédho".

But the morning after the riverbank adventure was colder and greyer than usual. Shortly after breakfast, a rumour of imminent snow spread through the tower's corridors. Within hours, the astronomers had confirmed it. The next day there would be snow, and to herald its coming, that night there would be a festival. What this meant, as far as Glorfindel and Oropher were concerned, was that Fingolfin, Fingon and every other Noldo of importance would be occupied until sundown with the preparations. They had an entire day to themselves without worry.

Every able-bodied Sindarin boy had been sent into the forest to gather wood for bonfires. All men who weren't cooking were set to digging the fire pits in a courtyard lawn just inside the city wall while Noldorin soldiers worked as carpenters to assemble a stage and pavilions. Sindarin women washed dishes and cleaned floors. Noldorin women hung wreaths, garlands and tapestries. Young Sindarin children stayed indoors, out of the way. Glorfindel and Oropher stayed with them.

They lined the walls of Barad Eithel's great hall like clusters of scruffy, earthen-robed moss, if moss had silvery pale hair. The hall was heated not by fires but by vents; every two yards there was an iron grate covering a hole in the stone wall. Through the hole came hot air from the kitchens below. On cold winter days, Sindarin children had a habit of huddling around the vents. Each vent warmed four or five. Hundreds of children sat along the walls while their parents worked in the kitchens or corridors of the castle. Most were girls, as the boys were put to work tending the fires as soon as they were strong enough to carry an armful of logs. The oldest girls were perhaps twenty or twenty-five, not quite old enough to go to work with their mothers and sisters. Most of them held fussing babies on their laps.

They looked like the Lucindorin beggars who lined the holy streets in Valmar, Glorfindel thought. Only they did not hold out little wooden bowls for money. They held out their small, cupped hands for food. As Oropher passed, they tugged on the hem of his coat and left desperate, dirty finger marks. If he was in a teasing mood he would ask them to sing for him, but more often he bent at the sight of their wide eyes, seeming too large in their thin faces, and gave away all the candy he carried. It amazed Glorfindel that Oropher always managed carry enough candy to appease a roomful of children. He wondered if Fingolfin knew where all that candy went.

Later, once Oropher was reduced to scraping powdered sugar from the inside of his loucoum bag to satisfy his desire for sweets, they sat along the top of the city wall and watched the digging and construction below. Glorfindel sat with his back firmly against the parapet and his chin tucked down inside his collar, seeking shelter from the wind. Even Oropher shivered and pulled his cape tighter around his shoulders.

"And there," he said without pointing, "that's where the food goes. Reckon I won't be allowed to have any this year either. Last year, the King said I had to keep out of trouble and stay indoors. So I went to the Thindren festival on the other side of the wall." He gestured with his head to the aspen bluffs on the north side of the city. "Way more exciting, I guess. Don't have no stupid plays or minstrels at our festival. We just get to eat and drink lots and dance to the drums."

"I'd rather stay indoors," said Glorfindel, listening to the wind howl across the parapets.

Oropher shook his head. "No way. The festivals are the best time you'll ever have round these parts. You can dress up and act like however you fancy and nobody cares because they're all dressed up and acting funny too. What'll you wear tonight?"

"What do you mean, what will I wear?"

"I mean you got to wear a costume," said Oropher. "Everybody got to wear a costume. That's the festival rules. The whole purpose of a festival is to wear a costume and act silly."

"Oh," Glorfindel said. He had no costumes, but imagined he could borrow something frivolous and ill-fitting from Fingon. "What will you wear?"

"I'm going to be a deer." Oropher crossed his arms over his chest and grinned proudly. "See, I have these leather breeches and boots, then I think I'll paint some deer shapes on my skin and maybe make a crown out of antlers so's everybody knows what I am."

"I see," said Glorfindel. "That sounds..." He wished he could say it sounded stupid, as nobody would ever mistake a Elf covered in paint for a deer, but Oropher was clearly so happy with himself for coming up with the idea. "That's very creative."

Oropher's grin widened. "Thanks. I can help you with your costume if you like."

"No, no thank you." Glorfindel quickly shook his head. "I'm sure Finde... I mean, Fingon, will have something for me."

"I guess," said Oropher. "But I'm sure his costume won't be near as good as mine."

"Probably not," said Glorfindel. He leaned as far forward as he could without moving too far into the path of the wind, and stared down at the half-dug holes in the cold courtyard, wishing they were full of fire.

~

A sweet smoke of burning branches and leaves came from the new brick-lined pits. To the side, between the fires and barrows full of gathered wood, green-clad Elves stood as sentinels to guard and feed the flames. The fires had been burning since sunset and would continue to burn through the night, until all the gathered wood was gone. These fires were sacred. No tree had been harmed to feed them, and nothing green lay in the barrows. Only deadfall and dry brown leaves were allowed to burn this night: only things that had been found lying on the forest floor. In the morning, all ash would be swept from the pits and thrown over the forests and fields as an offering and prayer for a plentiful spring. This was the Festival of Fire.

The festival as it occurred in Eithel Sirion was a melding of Noldorin and Sindarin tradition. In Valinor, the Noldor had burned dry stalks and leaves after harvest and scattered the ashes across their gardens. In giving the burned plants back to Yavanna, they showed thanks for the crop while asking her blessing for the next year. The burning time was marked with a festival of bright costumes and celebration with food, drink, and song. But the Sindarin festival had traditionally been held just before the first snowfall. They gathered wood and burned it in great bonfires that provided a backdrop for dancing and singing. The purpose of their fires was to appease the winter season, hoping that a celebration at its coming would ease the cold.

The Noldor, when they settled and built Eithel Sirion, were quick to distance themselves from Valinor. They pushed their old festival back to coincide with the Sindarin and formed something entirely new, taking elements from both traditions. Fingolfin, being a very accurate and literal person, dubbed it the Festival of Fire. New rules and customs were invented each year. Any sparkling innovation one year tended to become commonplace by the next. Six years earlier, a group of merchants had decided to perform a play. In six years, the festival play tradition had evolved with the following rules: the merchants, the blacksmiths, the tailors, and so on each had to perform a short historical play; between the plays would be music and acrobatics; awards would be given for best play, best music, and best fool; all the ladies' parts had to be played by ladylike boys, as no actual ladies were allowed on stage.

Glorfindel watched the last play from a courtyard wall near the bonfires, standing at Fingon's right-hand side. At Fingon's left was his cousin Lailaniel. Beside her was Galadrin, her brother, and beside Galadrin was the lady who would soon become his wife. Both Galadrin and his lady were clad in green, with braided straw adornments. Lailaniel wore a long dress of heavy and layered dark blue, modest or even self-conscious when compared to the shoulder- or arm-baring shifts that unmarried girls were allowed to wear for the festival. A golden lace veil fell down from her headpiece so that any who looked at her would see only that veil and her thick black hair, not her face.

Down among the fires, lines of people had gathered in the colourful rows of a court dance. Some had bells on their costumes, or chimes, so that a delicate silver music joined the cracking fires and laughing voices to decorate the air. Fingon stepped forward to watch. As he moved, the skirts of his costume, which seemed plain black when he stood still, ribboned and fell open to reveal bright satin underneath. One side was red and purple, the other blue and green. All colours were embroidered with silver leaves. By an old Noldorin tradition, costumes for the festival were sewn new each year by wives and mothers. Fingon though had neither, and his only sister was far away in Nevrast to the west. So it was Lailaniel who made his costumes. And she made them well, taking far more hours than she cared to admit to perfectly embroider and trim.

"They look beautiful down there, don't they?" Galadrin asked as he stood near Fingon at the edge of the wall. "All those colours in the firelight. Makes me think I should join them." He took his lady's hand, smiling at her. "Would you care to dance with me."

"I would," she said, and they left down the nearest stairway.

Lailaniel stepped closer to Fingon in her brother's absence, almost leaning against his shoulder. "I begin to feel the cold, this far away from the fires. Do you think it might be warmer down there?"

"I think it would be, closer to the flames," Fingon said.

"Would you come with me?" she asked. "You know how I am on the stairs. But my leg does not pain me so much tonight. Maybe it's only the excitement of the festival, but I think I could dance some."

"I'll help you down," said Fingon. "I say we have to take advantage of this opportunity, if you think you can dance. Here, hold on to my arm..."

Glorfindel cleared his throat. "Should I come, or stay here?"

"You do as you wish for now," said Fingon. "I shall find you later." He disappeared down the stairs after Galadrin, Lailaniel clutching tightly at his arm.

For the next hour, Glorfindel walked by himself along the wall, looking down at the festival. At first he walked only near the fires. But boredom overtook the desire to stay warm after watching endless, unchanging dances, and he left the courtyard wall for the parapet wall past where he and Oropher had sat earlier. The fire pits grew small and dim behind him and the dance music faded, though revellers were gathered everywhere in the city. Their voices and flutes carried up to where Glorfindel passed. Their glowing lanterns bobbed like fireflies in the darkness. To the north, where Oropher had indicated earlier, a flickering orange light illuminated the wall. Glorfindel followed it.

The Sindar preferred their own celebration on their own terms. Their festival had remained largely unchanged since the coming of the Noldor, as they saw no reason for the blending of two perfectly good opposing traditions. They wore costumes, but these were hardly the ornate dress of the Noldor, rather simple clothes for a simple night of dance and song: a crown of berries, a fur cape, a mask made from bark. There was no visible ceremony, and no rigid rules. It was sheer joy for life and living. On the edge of the forest, they lit their fires and danced to the rhythmic music of wooden drums and pipes. Hundreds of voices sang the words to a well-loved song. As it ended, another began, and another after that. The dancers held torches rather than delicate lanterns, and swung them wildly with their leaps and whirls.

Oropher, Glorfindel saw, was one of the dancers. He was dressed as he had described in leather breeches, and his bare chest and arms were painted with red animal shapes. The crown of antlers rested on his unplaited hair and he held a torch in each hand. As he danced, he spun the torches over his head and around his body, carving fiery shapes into the air. Sometimes he sang, and sometimes he only laughed, adding the sound of his joy to all the others that filled the grove. He looked neither as stupid nor as ridiculous as Glorfindel had imagined. He looked noble and free, like a king of his people.

Glorfindel could only watch from the high stone wall and wish he were down among them to be embraced by their unspoiled happiness. He stood a long while looking to those glad fires, until he was disturbed by the tiny metallic voices of bells behind him.

"Why did you come all they way out here?" Fingon asked. He came to Glorfindel's side, glancing down at the Sindarin festival below. "I was looking for you."

"I was watching them," Glorfindel answered.

"Mm," said Fingon. "They're pathetic, aren't they? Look at them: half-naked and howling at the stars like wild things."

"They look happy."

"If so, it's only because they're too ignorant to know better." He slid behind Glorfindel, pressing against him and leaning forward. His hands gripped the ledge on either side of Glorfindel's waist, pinning him. Fingon kissed his ear, and whispered, "We two are lucky to have been born among the higher peoples of Aman instead of with these savages."

Glorfindel said nothing. On the grass below, Oropher danced in rings around a girl wearing a garland of leaves. He spun his torches while she chased after him.

"Balthor!" she cried. "Balthor!"

He shouted something back to her, but his reply was lost in the laughter and music.

"My cousins left early to go home for the night," said Fingon, "and I think I would like to leave as well. I've ordered wine sent up to my room, so that should be waiting for us."

Glorfindel watched as Oropher turned and disappeared into the aspen groves before submitting to the tug of Fingon's hands around his waist and following back along the wall. Fingon had been at the wine already. His hands were hot, his cheeks were flushed, and he shuffled uneasily while still insisting on walking backwards as he pulled at Glorfindel's clothes.

"Tell me where I'm going," he said with a careless smile. "I can't see where the wall is. I shall fall off the edge and into a fire pit."

"You should turn around," said Glorfindel. 

Fingon shook his head. "Oh no. I must watch you. No, you won't escape from me again."

Glorfindel stopped, staring into Fingon's bright, wine-lit eyes. "I wasn't trying to escape. I was only going to see-"

"Your Sindarin friend, I know. Was he down there? I didn't notice."

"He was dancing."

"Some sort of inelegant ritual, no doubt," Fingon snorted. "Covered in leaves and animal skins. Howling and wailing their wretched... _glamren_ _glamb_... Oh, I cannot get the sound out of my head." He shuddered, as if the Sindarin language were a fearsome danger. "How Ta can stand it... his Sindarin boy... Or perhaps how you can stand it? You don't find their words terribly harsh, do you?"

"No," Glorfindel said, "I've never thought-"

"But then your Vanyarin dialect has some harder sounds as well," Fingon interrupted again. "I suppose you wouldn't mind the Sindarin then. You probably speak it very well, every day." He leaned close, sliding his hands up to cup Glorfindel's neck as he whispered in his ear, "Perhaps you could be my Sindarin boy."

Glorfindel stiffened. Those words, whatever they meant and whatever threat they held, made his stomach flip nervously. He reached up to pull Fingon's hands away from his neck, but Fingon only laughed a wine-coloured laugh.

"Come along, I said! Show me the way. I will go up to my room, and drink more wine. You must come with me, Sindarin boy. Tolo an ni! ...anni? This language will kill me, honestly..."

It took the better part of an hour to shepherd Fingon back along the parapet wall to the tower, and up the winding staircase to his bedroom. Though his Sindarin was worse than usual, no doubt thanks to drink, he insisted on saying everything in both languages for the benefit of whatever game he thought he was playing. Glorfindel humoured him and spoke back in Sindarin. But once they passed through the bedroom door, he became suddenly quieter and more sober. He shrugged off his costume, which became a crumpled pile of colourful fabric and black ribbons on the floor. He wore only black breeches underneath.

As promised, a tray of wine had been set on a small table next to a welcoming fire. Fingon picked up one of two silver cups and ran his thumb over the corded decoration about its middle. He glanced hesitantly at Glorfindel, back at the wine cup, at a drawer in his bedside table, and back at Glorfindel. "Wine?" he asked, then added before Glorfindel could answer, "I'll pour us both some."

"Thank you," said Glorfindel. He picked up Fingon's costume and draped it over a chair, then pulled off his own. It was something of Fingon's from years earlier, a full cloak made of gold and black diamond-shaped patchwork. As he undressed to his underclothes, he watched Fingon reach into the bedside table drawer and pull out what looked like only a flash of silver in the firelight. Fingon stood with his back to Glorfindel, shielding the wine from view. His arm moved. He hesitated. He glanced halfway back, catching Glorfindel in the corner of his eye. He looked tense. The festival had lowered his defences, and he seemed for the first time to be truly nervous. It made Glorfindel uneasy in turn to watch him.

With his eyes closed, Fingon turned to face Glorfindel, holding a cup in each hand. He crossed the room and held out the cup in his left hand for Glorfindel to take. When Glorfindel took it, he opened his eyes and exhaled the breath he had been holding. "Drink it," he said. 

Glorfindel sipped the wine. It had a strange taste, not something he noticed at first, but a lingering effect afterward, of earthy bitterness with a metallic tang. He looked hesitantly over the rim of his cup, but Fingon calmly sipped his own wine. There was no indication of worry at anything out of the ordinary. Satisfied, Glorfindel drank more, and he drank quickly, following Fingon's lead. And once they had finished and Fingon led him to sit on the bear rug by the fire, he followed again.

The fire seemed uncommonly bright that night. Three logs burned on the grate with a beauty that had gone unappreciated until that moment. Glorfindel had never really looked at fire before. He had watched it absently, usually while trying to avoid thinking of something else, but had never watched it for the sake of watching. But now that he was watching it, it made him smile. It seemed to be telling him some sort of secret. The main difference between Valmar and Eithel Sirion, he realised quite suddenly, was that in Eithel Sirion there was a fire every day, and in Valmar there was not. He laughed aloud at his own astounding cleverness.

"Are you alright?" Fingon asked in a slowly.

"I am very well, thank you," Glorfindel answered. The sound of his voice in his ears was much louder than he had intended, but in a lovely way. He repeated himself just to hear it again. "I am very well, thank you. Very well. Very. Well. Thank. You." He shook his hands. They were beginning to tingle. His hair tingled.

"Would you like to lie down?"

Glorfindel did not answer. He blinked, but the vision of fire stayed in his eyes. He closed his eyes to see if it would stay again. It did, but only for a second: a little dance of red and orange. When he opened his eyes, Fingon's arm was around his shoulder. He had scarcely noticed the touch. He could hardly feel it with his eyes open, looking down at Fingon's blatant hand. When he tried to shrug it off, his action was delayed. A second passed before his body performed the task he demanded. He tried to wave his arm, just to move it, but the reaction was so slow. His mind was becoming detached from his body.

"Finde... káno..." His loud voice echoed in his ears, distant as it was, like a faraway ghost.

"I have you," Fingon whispered. "It's alright. You're fine. Lie down." Fingon lowered him onto the fur, laying him on his back so he could look up at the ceiling, which seemed much higher than usual.

"I... I can't feel my... I feel like I'm shrinking."

Fingon lay beside him, holding him close and petting his hair. "What you feel is entirely normal. You needn't worry. Nothing bad will happen. This feeling will last an hour or two, then begin to fade. It will be gone by morning. Just stay here with me and you will be fine."

"If I lie like this," Glorfindel said, turning to press his cheek against Fingon's shoulder, "It feels as if my head is only as big as my fist."

"It's not, I promise."

It was not a bad feeling, being so small. It was worse feeling as if his mind were leaving his body. But Glorfindel allowed Fingon to roll him onto his back again, and he stared at the ceiling. It grew brighter for him, which made him smile. The cracks between the stones grew larger. He thought that if he tried hard enough, he could probably fit through them. He thought it might be cold trying to fit through cracks between rocks. He thought that beyond the cracks would be another room full of rocks, with gaps and cracks between them, and dust, and how much dust would it take to fill all those cracks in the entire tower, and where does it come from, and would it be possible to clean it all off, or does dust come from the rocks themselves, and how does dust get on the ceiling anyhow but never on the undersides of tables? Before he realised it, he had thought a whole family of thoughts.

Somewhere, in the back of his consciousness, he was vaguely aware that Fingon was stealing his clothes. He felt more naked than usual. Fully naked, perhaps. It was difficult to see without moving his head too much. In the middle of his consciousness, he could feel Fingon's kisses: on his ear, on his neck, on his chest, on his stomach, going lower. He could see black hair without moving his head at all, only moving his eyes. There was no face to be seen. It was hidden behind a veil of tangling black hair and warm breath and small kisses that slid slowly down his body.

It was almost enough to shock his body out of its haze of detachment when Fingon's tongue skirted the length of his cock. He hardly felt it at first, unexpected as it was. But the second, less hesitant movement he felt very sharply. Fingon's mouth closed around the tip of his shaft, slick and strange. With a gasp he scrambled to sit up enough to look, and stared in disbelief at that princely tongue in so unprincely a position. Fingon looked back at him, smiling, teasing. He held his princely tongue between his teeth.

"I'm trying to pleasure you, Sindarin boy, just to be nice, and you're looking at me as if this is absolute torture." His tongue made another quick, bold move.

Cringing, Glorfindel nodded.

"It is absolute torture?"

Glorfindel nodded again. He tried to inch away, or at least pull his knees up safely to his chest, but his movements were so slow and Fingon still held him so firmly.

"You have no sense of what's good for you," Fingon said. He pouted, frowning in disappointment, and slid up until they were again face to face. His skin was hot and smooth. His weight urged Glorfindel back down onto the bear rug. His erection pressed into Glorfindel's thigh like a threat. Some time ago he must have stolen his own clothes as well. "What would you like me to do?" he asked

Glorfindel could think of nothing to answer. So he answered, "Nothing."

"I can't do nothing," said Fingon. He ran a thumb over Glorfindel's lower lip. "May I kiss you at least?"

Kisses, Glorfindel knew, were not so bad. He was familiar with kisses. He did not mind them so much, any more. "Alright," he said.

Fingon grinned. But there was a fierce look in his eyes, and with suddenly reckless movements he kissed Glorfindel's neck and ear, and wound his hands through golden hair. He cupped Glorfindel's face, stroking his cheek and kissing his mouth as if kisses proved ownership. They were demanding kisses. They smothered and suffocated.

Glorfindel, frightened, weak and small, did the only thing his detached mind could think of to do. He closed his eyes and did his best to pretend nothing was wrong. The kisses were not a menace, he told himself, though without the burden of sight he could feel their weight far more acutely. There was nothing out of the ordinary. It was like any other night. Fingon would kiss him, and they would go to sleep. The terrible, shuddering feeling in his detached, naked body was no cause for worry.

He squeezed his eyes shut as hard as he could to lock out any hint of light. Darkness, he knew, helped a person go to sleep faster. It seemed to help. Fingon paused long enough to gently brush the hair back from Glorfindel's forehead and touch his tightly-closed eyes. "Laurefindil? Are you alright?"

"No," Glorfindel whispered.

"What's wrong?"

"I want to go to sleep."

With his closed eyes, he could hear the worried edge to Fingon's sigh. "Then I'll carry you to bed," Fingon said. He kept his eyes shut as Fingon lifted him and held him protectively close as they crossed the room to the bed. The blankets were a cold shock to his bare skin. Fingon rolled him over so he lay on his stomach, arms clutched close to his chest and pinned beneath his body.

Fingon did not pull the covers back as usual, but lay on top of them with Glorfindel, naked front pressed against naked side. One of his legs hooked between Glorfindel's. His hand massaged a circular pattern on Glorfindel's back, from shoulder to waist. "Is this better?" He asked.

Glorfindel nodded. It was better. He was in bed, not being kissed. He could sleep, and while he did, his body would reattach as Fingon promised. It felt nearer already. Wherever Fingon touched was awakened and connected in a direct link. He exhaled, willing himself to lie down as flat as he could on the bed, imagining his body sinking into the mattress, anchored by Fingon's warm hand. Its movements were soothing and hypnotic. With his eyes closed, he could fully feel every soft stroke: gentle touches, no longer fierce or menacing.

Fingon sang quietly as his hand worked over Glorfindel's skin, a song of somewhere distant and peaceful. His lips pressed against the back of Glorfindel's neck, separated by only a thin wave of hair. His songs grew quieter, or sometimes paused entirely to allow a kiss. Not even a kiss, Glorfindel thought. Lips pressed against skin, not moving, touched by hot breath: lips to neck, jaw, earlobe, ear tip. Involuntarily, a shiver ran down his spine. Fingon's hand stopped where it was, nails curving to scratch in fine lines.

"Do you like this?"

Glorfindel gave a weak nod and shrugged his back where Fingon's hand lay. He needed it to move again: needed it to make his skin glow and feel whole. He needed the kind touches.

"One moment," said Fingon. The bed frame creaked as he stepped onto the floor. "I'll be right back. Don't move."

The soft pad of Fingon's footsteps led to the distant complaint of a door opening. Seconds passed, growing colder. Glorfindel did not move. He could hear something tinkling, like smashed glass. Then the swish of the door, and Fingon's steps returning with the strong scent of oranges. "What's..." he murmured.

"Orange oil," Fingon answered. "From the bath." The bed creaked again as he climbed back on, knees straddling Glorfindel's hips. "Hold it." He propped up the bottle in Glorfindel's weak grip. Glorfindel tapped his fingertips against the oily glass as Fingon leaned down and began massaging his back again, this time with both hands, orange-scented.

The touch was different, in a subtle, indefinable way. Less soothing, maybe, and more sensual. Fingon's hands moved in strong lines from hips to shoulders and back again. Every now and again he would pause, either to kiss Glorfindel's bare skin or pour more oil on his hands. Sometimes he scratched gently with his nails. Sometimes he leaned over far enough to run his tongue and teeth up the curve of Glorfindel's ear. Glorfindel could hear his labouring breath. It made him shiver again, in a pleasant and tickling way. The shiver started in his neck and slid down to pulse between his legs. With each breath and bite and lick and stroke, Glorfindel felt his cock grow harder.

His hand seemed to move on its own, obeying his body's desire rather than his mind's decency. Morality, for the moment, had been abandoned. He dropped the oil bottle, letting it roll into a fold of blankets, and slipped his hand down under his hot stomach to his groin. The touch made him groan into the pillows. He stroked himself, first slowly, then quicker, rolling halfway onto his side to allow the movement. The oil on his hand coated his shaft. He stroked faster.

Fingon's hands on his back slowed and stopped. One rested on the bone of Glorfindel's hip, creeping around until it nearly met with Glorfindel's own. The other pushed away golden hair as Fingon whispered against his ear, "Will you let me now?" In a vague, half-aware reply, Glorfindel nodded yes.

Swiftly, Fingon sat upright again, balancing on his knees, and flipped Glorfindel over onto his back. There was no time wasted. Fingon lay between Glorfindel's legs, brushing his hand aside, and took his entire length in his mouth. Glorfindel writhed as the sensation shot up his spine.

"Not absolute torture any more?" Fingon asked.

"No..." Glorfindel gasped. "No..." Fingon's princely tongue dipped along the underside and circled the head. It was no longer strange or unwelcome. Now his body cried for it. He strained to arch his back and lift his hips from the bed, seeking Fingon's mouth. Fingon slid a hand beneath him to help support his weight. One orange-oiled finger stroked the cleft of his arse. Something began to coil inside him. With every movement of Fingon's mouth it wound tighter and pulsed hotter. He reached down again to touch himself, now slicked with spit and oil, needing something faster and harder and more desperate. Time was moving too slowly. Seconds dragged at a maimed pace.

He groaned when Fingon held his hand away, and again when Fingon's warm mouth pulled back. "Shh," Fingon said. Oily hands caressed Glorfindel's thighs, coaxing them further apart, before sliding around to cup his waist. The bed frame creaked a warning as Fingon moved closer and pulled Glorfindel up and toward him, until Glorfindel's hips rested on his thighs and Glorfindel's legs hooked around his waist

He looked as savage as anything, in Glorfindel's view. His chest rose and fell with every prominent, ragged breath. Beads of sweat gathered on his forehead, and damply matted hair fell across his shoulders. His eyes were brighter than flame. One hand closed around Glorfindel's shaft, stroking slowly but firmly, while a finger of the other probed lower and entered his body so quickly that Glorfindel had no time to even register the discomfort. By the time he realised what had happened, Fingon had found a way to justify the intrusion. A curve of the finger, and Glorfindel hissed through clenched teeth. The other hand moved a bit faster. The coil of energy in his body began winding tighter again. A second finger joined the first.

It was a strange sensation to be so vulnerable, stretched awkwardly with a twinge of pain, but Glorfindel had ceased to care. A more primitive and heathen concern had taken over. His whole body grew taut at the mercy of the hands that stroked him outside and in, and he stared up at Fingon's fiery eyes, fixing them with an unspoken demand and a single selfish need. _More. Better. Higher. Further. Relief. Please._

With the twitch of a smile, Fingon understood. He pulled both of his hands back and reached for the orange oil. He whispered in a coarse voice, "Touch yourself," and Glorfindel obeyed while Fingon slicked his own shaft with a handful of oil in shaky caresses. He leaned forward, guiding himself toward Glorfindel's entrance, and pressed until the head slid inside.

Glorfindel bit down on his tongue to hold back the groan that formed in his throat. The discomfort he felt before was doubled, with more than just a twinge of broad, flat pain, searing like a hot coal to his skin. He arched away from it, but Fingon followed.

"Stay," Fingon said. "The pain will fade. Don't think on it. Touch yourself, I said. Concentrate on that. Nothing else." The words came in short struggles of breath. And with each, he pushed forward while pulling Glorfindel's hips toward him, until he was fully inside.

Glorfindel closed his eyes and stroked himself hard and fast. Pleasure did not dull the pain, but made it bearable, as if the two complemented each other. He could feel Fingon move inside him. Back and forth, in and out, pleasure and pain. Stroking secretly and speeding to a wild pace. His hand quickened to match. There was only one goal now, and only one thought on his mind. The desire burned in him. It began as an insatiable tingle, growing slowly, needing more. A little further. Another stroke, another thrust. Nothing could come fast enough. He tensed his legs, squeezing them around Fingon's waist. Fingon replied by leaning closer and pulling him nearer. Another savage thrust, another manic stroke. He lingered on the very edge of finality. Then somewhere inside, somewhere untouchable, it broke like fire over fuel. His groin tightened and his body went rigid as it shot through him, shock after shock, and he spilled onto his hand. He dropped his head back with a choking cry.

And suddenly, too soon, it was done. His heart still pounded, and his breath still heaved, but his body was finished. Dull and heavy. He looked at Fingon, still striving toward some end, and realised, maybe for the first time, that perhaps this was not just for his own pleasure. Fingon moaned a coarse, inelegant moan, and gave his last few thrusts. The muscles of his stomach and chest were tightened and shining with perspiration. His arms trembled from holding Glorfindel's weight for so long. When he finally collapsed to the bed at Glorfindel's side, it was with exhausted pants and gasps, the sour smell of sweat mixed with sweet orange oil on his body. For a brief moment his gaze held Glorfindel's, unreadable as ever. Then his dimmed eyes closed, and stayed closed.

Glorfindel lay where he was. He felt distant, and thought nothing. He stared at the bed's canopy. Already the night felt far in the past, like a half-remembered dream. After a few minutes, he was unsure of whether or not it had really happened. He was too tired to remember. So, with a blank mind and a body growing once again distant, he rolled onto his side and went to sleep.

* * *

_Balthor: 'Vala' (S)_

_Glamren glamb: approx. 'chaotic, confused and barbaric noise and yelling' (s), chosen for the initial G and final B, both of which never occur in Quenya and might seem harsh or unpleasant._

_Tolo anni: 'come to me' (S)_


	3. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Lauron-Nama', part (two). As a servant to Fingon in the court of Eithel Sirion, Glorfindel learns what is expected of him, what he must endure, and how he can turn it to his advantage. Slash. Adult rating has been applied for graphic sexual exploitation and coercion, drug and alcohol use, objectionable language, violence, brutality, and overall mature and very dark subject matter.

It was as if Fingon were trying to avoid Glorfindel. He carried the air of a person who knew he had done a great wrong but refused to acknowledge it. He acted too innocent and oblivious. In the morning he left early, before the Sindarin boys brought breakfast. He only returned, with the barest of nods to Glorfindel's silent presence, for his bath in the evening. And he bathed by himself, not bothering this time to ask for assistance.

Glorfindel lay alone and shivered in his tangle of blankets. A wind howled mournfully around the tower, creaking the shutters. The sound of it made him colder. His whole body ached and his mind still felt clouded and dull, too exhausted to think and too burdened to sleep. Every time he lay down his head, a single vile thought coursed through him. It came in flashes of memory with hazy edges: Fingon's bright eyes, naked skin reflecting orange firelight, a faraway pain. A vulgar, fleshy smell, the sickly sweet scent of tainted orange oil, still lingered on his body. He felt sticky with the oil and Fingon's sweat and spit. And he lay half-aware in a mess of dirty blankets, staring at the sooty fire, breathing the stale air.

By the time Fingon finally spoke to him, after bathing, he had not moved or eaten all day. "The water is still warm, if you like," were Fingon's first words.

All his life, Glorfindel had taken time to wash every day, at least his face and hands and feet; tradition required it. Today, he had gone so far without. His first thought was the automatic; go to the bath. But his second thought was a realisation that religion no longer mattered. In one night, he had shattered the barrier between acceptable and sinful that he had struggled for so long to maintain. What did it matter now, if he followed one small rule or another? He no longer deserved them. Rules and religions were for the pure. He rolled over to look at the wall. The stiffness in his legs made him cringe. It was a reminder of his weakness.

"Laurefindil?"

Fingon came to sit on the side of the bed. He rested a hand on Glorfindel's shoulder, and kept it firmly in place though Glorfindel pulled from the touch. "Are you still feeling unwell?"

Glorfindel did not answer.

"I can carry you," Fingon said softly. His concerned hand slid down to Glorfindel's waist.

Again, Glorfindel gave no answer. But Fingon's arm wormed beneath his shoulder, and the hand at his waist scooped under his knees, and Fingon lifted him blankets and all from the bed. He gave only a token struggle of discomfort as he was carried across the bedroom, through the bathing room, and let down so he was sitting on the edge of the tub. The smell of fresh orange oil lingered in the damp air. It made his empty stomach turn, suddenly nauseated by the memory. He doubled over, nearly falling, but Fingon knelt on the floor to hold him steady.

"Do you need me to stay with you?" Fingon asked. His voice was as concerned as the hands gripping Glorfindel's arms. Glorfindel refused to meet his gaze to see if that same concern showed in his eyes. "If you need me to help you into and out of the bath, I'll-"

Glorfindel quickly shook his head.

"No?"

He shook it again.

"Are you certain? You look like..."

"No."

A single word to break a chain of silence could have the most power. He needed only say it once. Fingon sighed, a defeated sort of sound, and stood. He released Glorfindel's arms only at the last moment. "I'll be waiting in the other room if you need anything," he said, then left quickly.

Glorfindel let the blanket drop only once Fingon had closed the door behind him. He slid into the bath, letting the water cover him like armour. He grabbed the dish of slippery liquid soap, pine-scented, and rubbed it over his body. It masked the smell of orange oil, but did not destroy it. The perfume lingered. It was in the air and water and on his skin. Like a brand, he thought. Fingon's property was well established. And he hated the idea. He hated Fingon, but he hated himself more for allowing it. For being so easily won.

A rough-woven cloth hung over the edge of the tub, and he took it to his body, scrubbing harshly at his neck, his chest, his legs: any place that Fingon had touched, any place that Fingon had kissed, any place that Fingon had even seen, any place that had been marred by his love. He scratched his skin until it was red and burning in the hot water, yet the cleansing did little to remove Fingon's presence. Disgusted, he threw the cloth to the floor and dropped his head into his hands. This fouling could not be undone by water. It was pointless to try. It could not be undone at all. At least, not by himself.

Lifting his head, he turned to look west. "My Lord Manwë," he whispered, "If I am dear to You, and You will one day forgive me my sins, I beg You send me a sign."

For a minute he sat as still as he could, hardly daring to breathe, watching for the faintest flicker of divinity. Nothing came.

He inhaled and exhaled, slowly and shakily. "My Lord Manwë. If I have offended You and exiled myself from the grace of Your blessing, I beg You send me a sign."

As he spoke the final word, a scream of wind blasted against the tower and caused the shutters to crash open and shut. He spun around to look, feeling suddenly cold, and let out a scream of terror. A ghostly white bird flew in like lightning and struck the window. The weight of its body cracked the glass. The shutters clapped shut behind it again, hitting the window frame with such force that the broken pane shook loose and smashed to the floor. Then as quickly as it had come, the gust died down.

When Fingon came to see what had happened, Glorfindel was shaking. "I heard you shout," he said. "What happened?"

"The window," Glorfindel whispered. He raised a trembling hand to point. "A bird..."

Fingon crossed to the window, bending down to examine the shards. A white feather stuck there with a smudge of blood. "Looks like a poor bird hit the glass." He picked up the feather and carried it back for Glorfindel to see. "Must have been drawn by the light. It happens, sometimes."

Glorfindel pressed his hands against his eyes, refusing to look at the feather. A sudden gust of wind and a dead bird. What else could it be, if not a sign from Manwë? A wavering sob welled up from his chest before he could think to quell it.

"Oh, love, it was only a bird," Fingon said gently, stroking Glorfindel's wet hair. "It gave you a fright, but there's nothing to worry about now. Come on, I'll carry you back to bed. And I'll fasten all the shutters to make sure it can't happen again."

Another sob escaped as Fingon helped Glorfindel from the bath. Glorfindel clung to his neck, arms clenched tight and still shaking. "I want to stay in my own room tonight," he said. His voice faltered and his teeth chattered.

Fingon gave a concerned frown. "Why?"

"I just..." It was impossible to find the words to describe to Fingon what he wanted, and why. "I just want to be alone. For a while."

"You're still shaking," Fingon said. He kissed Glorfindel's ear and tightened his embrace. "It makes me worry about you. You should stay here tonight where I can-"

"No," Glorfindel interrupted. "I want to be alone."

Fingon sighed his defeated sigh again, and dropped his arms. "If you wish..." He retreated to the bedroom and sat on the edge of his bed. Glorfindel followed, gathering his discarded clothing as he went. "Make sure you call someone to light the fire for you," Fingon said. "It is freezing tonight."

Glorfindel nodded but said nothing as he pulled on his clothes, piece by piece.

"I'll come see you in the morning," said Fingon. "Make sure you're alright." His voice had an odd, hollow ring to it that made Glorfindel hesitate, but only for a moment, as he caught Fingon's gaze on his way out. The usually unreadable expression held so much blatant unhappiness that it caused a chill to run down his spine. He turned away quickly and shut the door.

~ 

It was Glorfindel who came to see Fingon in the morning. He had hardly slept at all.

All night, his thoughts had wound around a progression of themes. First, was he truly cursed by Manwë? Was Manwë so unforgiving? Yes, he had finally decided. Holy men always spoke of the Vengeance of the Lord of Arda. Followers were meant to fear and obey the Valar absolutely. There was no room for error, not even the error of one shadowy night. His thoughtless actions had cursed him.

Second, now that he was cursed by Manwë, what would he do? That answer came easily. Manwë had turned His back, so Glorfindel would return the favour. There was little sense in keeping up with a religion in which one was no longer welcome. Why should he pray to Manwë and praise His name only to get nothing in return? Why should he continue following strict orders for no purpose? Now that he and Manwë were at odds, there was no reason for any of it.

The third theme was most important. It spread through him like a golden revelation, clearing his mind and lifting the burden of worry. He could not pretend that he had not been battered and scarred as he was thrown from Manwë's favour. For a few hours as he lay in the cold and dark of his bedroom he had tried vainly to cling to the few splinters of hope he could muster. It had not been easy to give up his soul so completely. But once it was done, and the last ties severed, he began to feel a new sense of belonging. And he realised, with great interest, that the place inside him vacated by fleeing spirituality no longer felt so empty. It had been replaced by a new desire. A desire for freedom. A desire for things that had before been frowned-upon or forbidden, but that he could now have. A desire for power.

He had been so amazed by this new way of thinking that he slid out of bed, though it was scarcely sunrise, dressed, and went to find Oropher. The beginnings of an understanding were forming in the back of his mind. He had questions to ask. The burn of excitement drove his movements, and the stiffness in his body scarcely mattered any more. He went quietly but quickly down the corridor to knock at Oropher's door. After three tries there was still no answer. Oropher was likely in the King's room. In that case, Glorfindel would have no choice but to sit upstairs and wait. But luck was with him when he came to the fifth floor; Oropher was sitting by the door to Fingolfin's room, asleep, with his head drooping awkwardly against the doorframe. His breath showed white in the frigid air, and helped tiny ice crystals to grow on his eyelashes.

Glorfindel knelt down and gave him a gentle shake. With a start, Oropher woke. He rubbed the ice out of his eyes, mumbling, "What are you doing... it's not time to get up, is it? Why are you dressed already? It's not morning. Where were you yesterday?"

Glorfindel ignored the questions. "Why are you sleeping out here?" he asked.

"King told me to leave," said Oropher. With a yawn and a shiver, he pulled his cape tighter around himself. "And I figured I'd stay here, since he'd get angry if I wasn't around when he woke up. Bugger, it's cold..."

"Why did he tell you to leave?"

Oropher yawned again. "I don't know. He usually does. Gets me to do something, gives me some candy, tells me to leave. At least half the time. I spend a lot of nights out here. It's not too bad when you get used to it."

"You do what he says and he gives you candy."

"Mm." Oropher nodded. "Do what he says, get candy. Don't do what he says, get a whipping. Pretty easy choice, I reckon."

"So it's like an agreement," said Glorfindel. The understanding grew clearer in his mind. "Do what he wants, get what you want."

Oropher rolled his eyes. "You've been here how long and you just figured that out now?"

"I was more worried about other things until now."

"Other things don't matter any more." 

"I know that now," Glorfindel said. It was so clear.

Oropher shifted positions, tucking his legs under him. "You just do what you can to get what you can. That's most important." Closing his eyes, he leaned back against the door frame. "Me, I'm working toward one day being a soldier..." His last words were slurred by an errant yawn.

It was hard for Glorfindel to see how sharing Fingolfin's bed could possibly lead to one day becoming a soldier. But then, he had only just discovered the system. Oropher had been studying it for a year and a half. He likely knew better his opportunities and limitations, what he needed to do and how far he could go. Those were things Glorfindel would need to discover. He considered asking Oropher, but stopped when he realised that Oropher's rules would be of no use to him. Those rules applied to Fingolfin. Glorfindel, dealing with Fingon, was in a completely different situation.

He smiled down at Oropher, now half asleep. "I will find you later," he said.

"Mm-hmm."

As carefully as he had come, Glorfindel slipped back down the corridor to stop by Fingon's bedroom. For the first time standing before that door, he could hear his heart pounding loudly and feel his skin tingle in brilliant anticipation. For the first time, he felt a desire for what was about to happen within. It had already started. He had not seen it at the time, but the previous night had marked a turn of fortunes. Fingon had changed. He was softer now, and less severe: less iron, more bendable. This new Fingon had accepted Glorfindel's "no" without complaint. He was losing power. The thought made the corners of Glorfindel's mouth twitch in a sly grin. Power Fingon lost, Glorfindel would gain.

So, with the knowledge high in his mind that he was about to write an entirely new set of rules for a system in a state of turmoil, he opened the door and stepped inside. For the first time, he felt like the prince. Fingon could be his servant. He needed only seize the opportunity.

Fingon was still asleep, and the fire was not yet lit. Glorfindel crossed the cold room, still dark as night, undressing down to his breeches as he went. He brushed the curtains aside with his hands, and with a deep breath to calm his racing heart, climbed onto the bed.

Fingon awoke immediately. His shadowy form sat up in the dark, and he gasped. "Laurefindil."

"Mm," said Glorfindel. He slid under the covers at Fingon's side, comfortably warmed by body heat in the stillness of sleep. He let his knee brush against Fingon's bare leg. _Tolerate it_ , he told himself. _It's all for the best. Work toward the goal_. And what was the goal? He was not entirely sure yet. For the time being, he needed only to shift the balance of power in his favour. Once that was accomplished, he could decide how best to serve himself. He touched Fingon's arm with a sweet smile.

Without hesitation, Fingon fell upon him, pulling him into a kiss of furious desperation. Glorfindel allowed it. He returned the kiss as best he could manage. He arched his back obligingly when Fingon's arms slipped under him.

"I was so worried about you last night," Fingon murmured against Glorfindel's cheek. His breath came in hot, uneven bursts.

"I'm fine now."

"Good... Good." He moved to kiss Glorfindel's ear, and the skin below. "You feel better?"

"Yes." Glorfindel forced himself to lift a hand to Fingon's back in a tentative caress. It was like a game. He had to play along. If he did the right thing, and made the right moves, he stood a chance of winning. So he would go as far as he dared. He would accept Fingon's touches and kisses, and only say no when it came to the critical moment. By then Fingon would be satisfied and let him be. That was how the game worked.

Fingon kissed his neck and shoulder, feathering tongue and teeth across his skin. "I missed you last night," he said.

"Sorry."

"But you're here now..." He shifted back and propped himself up on one elbow, letting his free hand stroke Glorfindel's cheek.

"Mmm," Glorfindel replied as wandering fingers passed over his lips.

"Why did you leave me?"

Though the words were accusing, Fingon's voice remained soft and sad. "I don't know," said Glorfindel. "I had to think over some things."

"Such as?"

"Everything."

Fingon laughed. "It must have been a long night."

"It was."

"Yes, it was a very long night..." He leaned down for another, gentler kiss. "How cold it is, I know, to spend the hours alone, with only one's bleak thoughts for comfort and company."

Glorfindel, choosing to ignore the pointed hint, said only, "Hm."

Fingon kissed him again. A slow, indulgent kiss, hardly breathing, as he pulled Glorfindel closer until their bare bodies met, skin to skin. His hands hooked in the waistband of Glorfindel's breeches, the only barrier between them. His head turned, and his lips brushed Glorfindel's cheek. "Will you let me..." he began in a soft voice. Then he paused, wavering on uncertainty, before quickly adding, "I want you. Now. I mean... Will you let me, now?" 

The critical moment had come too soon. Immediately, Glorfindel tensed. "I..." He could feel Fingon tense as well, though more of a flinch at the cut of rejection.

"No?" Fingon asked. He pulled back, though only far enough to be able to look Glorfindel in the eye.

"I didn't say no," Glorfindel said quickly.

"You didn't say yes," said Fingon. "That's as good as any no."

Glorfindel smiled coyly, hoping the gesture would at least buy him enough time to think of a new strategy. "I thought I wasn't allowed to say no."

Sighing, Fingon pulled further away and propped himself up on his elbow again. "Can't always say no," he muttered.

Glorfindel kept his victorious smirk to himself. Before, he had been unable to say no at all. Now he had won the right. He appreciated Fingon's new rules more with every passing minute. "Maybe..." he started.

"Maybe?"

"Maybe... tomorrow."

"Why not today?" Fingon held his breath.

"I don't know. Just not today."

Fingon tilted his head, as if to indicate he was about to make a grand observation. "How is tomorrow so different from today? Only a short time passes before one becomes the other. It's no use putting something off for no good reason." His hand began to wander up Glorfindel's arm in a slow caress.

"I have a reason," said Glorfindel, brushing Fingon's hand aside.

"What is that?" Fingon asked.

"Um. I just think... maybe today... it isn't very... isn't..."

Fingon placed a soft kiss at the base of his ear. "Maybe I can change your mind." While his lips traced the contour of Glorfindel's throat, his hand slipped quietly between their bodies.

"But it's morning. Nearly breakfast time, isn't it?"

"Not yet," said Fingon. "Not for an hour, at least." He moved his hand boldly lower to press between Glorfindel's legs.

Glorfindel jerked back. "No!"

"No, what?" Fingon asked sharply. His hand stayed in place, gripping the inside of Glorfindel's thigh. "I think I am tired of you saying no so much. No to what now?"

Glorfindel squirmed until he was free of Fingon's grasp, kneeling up on the corner of the bed with his hands clenched defensively at his waist. "No, I will not agree to this," he said, "and no, I will not let you do these things, and no, you cannot change my mind!"

"Laurefindil, you are overreacting..." He reached out far enough only to touch Glorfindel's knee.

Glorfindel's confidence had abandoned him. He no longer felt like the prince, but again like the small and insignificant servant boy without a hope. It had been stupid to ever think he had any measure of control. It had been a sore mistake to consider challenging Fingon, who had a strong record of always turning things to his advantage. Every thought that had come to him over the night, and every realisation, was turning very wrong. And suddenly, acutely, he missed the blind comfort of his dedication to Manwë. It had been tossed aside too quickly. His situation was worse for it. He had nothing, now. And if his clumsy manipulation failed to save him, he would have to fight.

Fingon sat upright and leaned forward. "What exactly is your problem?" he asked.

"I won't share your bed," Glorfindel said flatly. "I won't."

"A little late for such thoughts, isn't it? When a minute ago... What are you playing, here?"

Glorfindel narrowed his eyes. He knew he looked frightened. He needed to look defiant. "I don't care what you say or what you do. I will not."

"You're not making this any easier on yourself," said Fingon, and he let out a long breath.

"I don't care."

Turning his eyes down to the blankets, Fingon rubbed his forehead and exhaled again, hissing. "Come over here," he said quietly.

"No," said Glorfindel.

Fingon's wrath turned suddenly terrible. "I said come over here!" he shouted.

It was a voice that Glorfindel had not heard before. Since his arrival, Fingon had never shouted at him with such ferocity, and it shook him. His stomach twisted. But still he said, "No," in a fainter, more fearful voice.

"Your purpose is not to vex me, but to do as I say! Now come here!"

Fingon lunged forward, hands out for a rough purpose, but Glorfindel was quick to defend. His left arm he held up across himself, away from his body. The right shot out. His fist connected squarely with the side of Fingon's face.

For a second, both of them were too shocked to move. Fingon froze, poised to grab Glorfindel's shoulder. Then he fell back. He teetered onto his wrists, eyes wide and mouth gaping, and lay dumb a moment before his hand flew to his nose. A trickle of scarlet began to show, which soon became a steady flow. It dripped down over his lips, off his chin, and onto his chest in a bright puddle.

Slowly, Glorfindel pulled his hands back to his body, tucking them tight against his stomach. The knuckles on his right hand stung.

"You... struck me," Fingon said slowly. He did not move, but continued to blink at Glorfindel in shock.

"I'm sorry," Glorfindel whispered.

"You struck me!" Fingon repeated. His voice was louder. Though his mouth was half blocked by his hand, Glorfindel could see his mouth twist in rage. "By Varda, you little..."

He was not paralysed any more. Snarling and dripping blood from between his fingers, he jumped off the bed and crossed the room. He threw the door open violently to shout into the hall. "Alkarrossë! Alkarrossë, get over here!"

While Fingon shouted and waited by the door, Glorfindel remained sitting on the bed. His whole body shook. He struck the prince. He drew royal blood. The punishment would be severe. "I'm sorry," he said, loudly enough for Fingon to hear across the room, though is voice faltered. "My lord, forgive me, I did not intend..."

"Shut up," said Fingon. He spat blood at the floor. "Alkarrossë!"

Celeiros appeared after a cold and tense minute, rubbing his eyes in the blue light and pushing tangled hair away from his forehead. His look granted Fingon no favour. "What?"

"The Vanyarin boy refused my command." He spat again and shook out his bloody hand, spattering Celeiros' nightshirt with red.

"What happened to your nose?!" Celeiros asked.

"Not important," said Fingon. "The boy-"

"Did he strike you?!"

"I said it's not important!" Fingon shouted. "What is important is that he refused my command, and I want him punished for it."

Celeiros turned to regard Glorfindel with a sudden interest. All signs of sleepiness were gone from his face, replaced instead with a thin, cruel smile. "Punished how, my lord?"

"I don't care." Fingon sniffed and wiped his nose, smearing blood over his cheek. "Whatever you see fit. Twenty lashes, forty... This is your area."

"Yes," Celeiros murmured. "It is." His eyes glinted fiercely.

Glorfindel went without a struggle. He allowed himself, numb and shaking, to be dragged from the bed and pulled down corridors and stairways. His body registered neither the cold in the air nor the clawing grip on his arm. But he heard Celeiros' vicious words clearly.

"You know I've been waiting months for this... waiting for the beloved Vanya to slip... I thought it would have happened long ago. He's far too lenient with you. Treats you better than you're worth."

"I'm sorry..." Glorfindel mumbled.

"I suppose it took a blow to the nose for him to take a fair look at you. Well. Important or not, you will be punished for what you've done. I promise it."

He pulled Glorfindel through the main hall, empty save for a few huddled children sleeping around kitchen vents, and down a corridor Glorfindel had never used before. It led to a heavy wood door, beyond which was a dark stair lit by a feeble, dying torch. The feeling of dread hanging on this place made Glorfindel shiver in a way the freezing morning alone could not manage. "Where are we going?" he whispered.

Celeiros smiled coldly at him. "You will see."

The smell of damp and filth grew chokingly strong as they descended. Fearsome sounds echoed through the stones: the clink of metal, sobs and cries, desperate Sindarin voices howling and begging in the darkness. At the bottom of the stair, Glorfindel understood why. They were in a prison. Stone cells with iron bars lined a long, dirty corridor. Dim lamps hung burning and smoking from the ceiling. In the first cell they passed, a boy no older than Oropher lay sprawled on the stones while rats crawled over his bloody legs and sniffed at his wounds. Glorfindel froze and backed against the wall.

"Keep on," said Celeiros. He grabbed Glorfindel by the hair to pull him further forward.

For the first time, Glorfindel resisted. He pulled back against Celeiros' grip, heedless of the pain. "Please let me go," he choked. "Let me go, please, I'm sorry... I'll go back to Findekáno. I'll go back. Whatever he says... I'll do whatever he says. Please let me go. I swear. Whatever he says, I swear... Let me go..."

"You're somewhat too late."

"Let me speak to him!" Glorfindel pleaded. "Please, if you let me speak to him, he will forgive me, I know!"

"And that is exactly why I cannot let you speak to him," said Celeiros. "He will forgive you. He is too soft. You need to be punished."

He dragged Glorfindel further down the corridor, passing rows of cold and filthy cells. The prisoners within, all Sindar, cried out in fear and pain or else sat hopelessly still. Most were heavily chained. All wore signs of abuse: cuts, welts, and scabs of dried blood on skin and clothes. Glorfindel watched them as he passed, staring into each vile tableau, until Celeiros jerked him to an abrupt stop at the far end of the row. Then he leaned over, braced his hands on his knees, and vomited onto the dirty stone floor.

The two guards at their table laughed. Celeiros gave his hair a sharp tug to pull him upright again. "Our Prince Findekáno sends a prisoner," Celeiros said.

"Crime?" asked one of the guards.

Celeiros cleared his throat. "For the crime of refusing the Prince's rule," he stated officiously; "for the crime of raising a hand against our noble Prince; for the crime of causing royal blood to be spilt; for the crime of grievous injury to a royal person: as servantmaster and secretary to King Nolofinwë of Hisilómë, I do hereby recommend that Laurefindil of Valmar be kept no less than forty years in confinement."

"It will be done," said the guard, and he grabbed Glorfindel roughly by the shoulders.

"Forty years!" Glorfindel whispered hoarsely. His voice seemed to fail him. A few days, he had thought: five or six or, at the most, twelve. He could have tried to endure that.

Celeiros turned to him with sharp eyes and the a shadow of a mocking smile. "Forty years," he repeated harshly. "I am being very gracious on account of your young age. The normal sentence would be three times that."

It scarcely registered to Glorfindel through the fire of panic in his mind: the chilling click of iron around his ankles, the weight of cold metal dragging down on his skin, the frigid air of the unheated cell. He could struggle, but vainly. The guards were far stronger. Together, they could carry him, and keep him still as they took his arms and chained him to the wall with bolted shackles that hung above his shoulders. The bonds bit his wrists.

"Let me go..." he pleaded with them. His throat was tight, as if constricted by a chokehold. His tongue was too heavy. The words buzzed in his ears, muted and inadequate. "I beg you, please let me go. This isn't... this isn't what Findekáno wanted..."

"Shut up," snapped Celeiros. "I don't think it is your place to decide what the Prince does or does not want."

"This isn't what he wanted!" Glorfindel cried. "He wouldn't! You know he'll be angry when he learns what you've done!" His voice held too much fear. Even Glorfindel could hear how weak he sounded, and how frantic, to cling to the faint hope of Fingon's grace.

Celeiros smiled in reply. "Well then," he said. "If that be the case, we will simply have to keep him from knowing."

What Glorfindel recalled last, as Celeiros turned and left the squalid cell, was the guard's rough fist smashing against his cheek an instant before his head snapped back and cracked against the stone wall. The pain lasted only a second before he fell unconscious.


	4. Chains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Lauron-Nama', part (two). As a servant to Fingon in the court of Eithel Sirion, Glorfindel learns what is expected of him, what he must endure, and how he can turn it to his advantage. Slash. Adult rating has been applied for graphic sexual exploitation and coercion, drug and alcohol use, objectionable language, violence, brutality, and overall mature and very dark subject matter.

The most popular topic of conversation in Eithel Sirion that day was how a servant boy had broken the Prince's nose. Earlier it had been dismissed as a fanciful rumour, said to have been started purely for the sake of causing a sensation, but by the time Fingon showed up for Lady Fanacálë's annual harp recital with a bruised nose full of bloody wadding, no-one doubted it. The concert salon buzzed with speculation. Most of it concentrated on the "why" of the circumstance, but none dared to ask Fingon, who sat by himself in the back corner of the room, near the window, holding a hand over the lower half of his face. He looked vengeful. Speculation was far safer, and likely more interesting than the truth. By the end of the recital, consensus was that the servant boy in question had attempted to assassinate the Prince, and that as they spoke, Sindarin rebels were preparing to instigate an uprising and overthrow the Noldorin monarchy. 

Fingon did not care enough to correct them. Setting the gossip straight would mean having to subject himself to endless questions about the truth of what happened, and the more he thought on it, the more he was convinced that such admissions would not be in his best interest. The assassination story at least made him out to be a hero. He felt like anything but.

Lady Fanacálë's inexpert harping and her young son's high, childish singing crawled on. Fingon stared out the window. Soft snow was falling, and on the grounds, a fight had started between two soldiers. One had his arm clamped around the other's neck, while a young woman in a red cape, surely the cause of the fight, dropped her basket of evergreens and pleaded with them to stop. How blissful, Fingon thought, to be a commoner. They were not bound by the stifling cords of propriety and obligation, dictated by the material sins of the world. How blissful, to be free to brawl in the street while the privileged classes endured clumsy notes and boy sopranos. No-one would care if a soldier had a broken nose. No-one would notice. Common soldiers could disappear into the shadowy background of the world to live as they pleased: days hunting evil, nights in secretive tents. For this, Fingon envied them. 

"You will insult our performers if you continue to so blatantly ignore them." 

Fingon did not look at his father, who had come quietly enough to sit unnoticed. "How long have you been there?" 

"Two songs, I'd say," said Fingolfin. "How is your nose?" 

"It hurts, of course," Fingon hissed. "And all this stuffing is helping none. I can hardly breathe." 

"It's necessary if you want the break to heal straight." Fingolfin looked at him closely, as if surveying the damage. "Whatever happened to make him hit you so hard, anyhow?" 

"Nothing of note." 

"He was a bit difficult, yes, but I never suspected violence..." With a sigh, Fingolfin shook his head. "Where is the boy now?"

"I don't know," said Fingon. "Likely in his bedroom feeling sorry for himself. I told Alkarossë to give him a whipping."

"Only?" Fingolfin asked. "You know the lawful punishment for violence toward the nobility is a sentence in chains." 

Fingon shifted in his chair. "I do know that, yes. But the punishment for commonplace disobedience, which is really the problem at hand, is twenty or more lashes."

"But he broke your-"

"I told you, that is nothing of note," said Fingon, cutting him off abruptly. "An unrelated incident. It is my choice, is it not, what punishment to give, and for what reason?"

"But he-" 

"I won't discuss it. Now if you'll excuse me, I am going back to my room to be alone. I woke up far too early this morning and have had a highly aggravating day so far."

He stood just as Lady Fanacálë ended her song. The legs of his chair scraped loudly against the stone floor in the silent second between last note and first applause, and he left the room amid curious glances and murmurs. Fanacálë glared at him, and Fingolfin, to make amends, started clapping rather too loudly and enthusiastically.

~ 

Glorfindel did not return all that day. Fingon thought little of it, attributing the absence to a fearful need to be alone. He would, no doubt, be unwilling to immediately return. It was understandable. But he was still missing by the end of the second day, having not been seen at all by anyone, and this was a cause for concern. Whether it made him more worried or more annoyed, Fingon found difficult to say.

He caught Celeiros after supper for a brief interrogation.

"You punished him as I asked?"

"Of course," Celeiros said softly.

"And then?" 

"I left him. There was no reason for me to hang about."

Fingon frowned. Something in the way Celeiros tilted his head, and how he spoke too quickly, piqued suspicion. "Do you know where he is now?"

Sighing, Celeiros made a show of looking around the hall in concern. "I'm sorry, my lord," he said. "I've not seen him all day." He had nothing else to offer.

On the third day, Fingon stooped to asking Oropher, who said that he had not seen Glorfindel since the morning Fingon's nose had been broken. He had been looking for him since. Oropher suggested that it was possible Glorfindel had run away, but Fingon was convinced it was not so; he had taken nothing, not even clothes, from his bedroom. Wherever he was, he was dressed exactly as he had been when Celeiros dragged him from the bed.

Again, Fingon questioned Celeiros. Some vital thread was missing.

"I assure you, my lord," Celeiros said, "that my story has not changed since yesterday."

"Remind me," said Fingon.

"After I left your room, I brought the boy down for his punishment, and that is all. I had nothing further to do with him."

"And you have no idea where he could be now?"

"It's anyone's guess, really," Celeiros said vaguely. "Servants are always trying to go places they're not meant to be... I've noticed that about the Sindarin boy who serves your father, too. The other day I found him-"

"I want to know where my Laurefindil is," Fingon interrupted. "That is all."

The smallest flicker of a smile touched Celeiros' mouth, so brief it could have been a curious illusion. He repeated what he had said the day before; "I've not seen him all day. I'm sorry I can be no help to you."

He walked away, calmly and quietly, leaving Fingon to call after him; "If I find that you have in any way been untruthful, you will suffer for it."

Celeiros looked back over his shoulder. "The stars know I only ever speak truth to you, my lord." Quickening his step, he hurried away.

~

There was blood dripping from the tips of Glorfindel's fingers. Or at least, that was how it felt. He could see no blood. His fingers felt strange, as if they were wooden fingers separated by thin layers of gauze, and the ends were bleeding. He could move them no more than a slight twitch.

He could feel blood in dried rivulets down his arms. This, he was sure, was real. The iron shackles cut into his wrists and the weight of his body, pulling down from the bonds set a yard apart and above his head, had torn the skin. It had pained him once, almost like a burn, but had numbed now from the cold. His wrists, too, felt like wood.

His shoulders ached fiercely from hanging so long on the wall. He had no feeling in his legs, and the power to stand had left him long ago. How long was impossible to say; he slipped in and out of consciousness so easily and had no way to even guess at the passage of time. Days, perhaps, had gone by. He had not eaten. Hunger that had once raged had faded to a hollow nothing. But he gladly drank whatever oily water the guards offered from their unwashed ladle. Then they threw it in his face, dousing him with an icy splash, and laughed.

"...doesn't hold up too well... won't last long... how weak..."

Their words, filtered through a mind in a half-waking fog and obscured by desperate and echoing Sindarin cries, were incomplete.

Glorfindel murmured to them. He felt his lips part, and the word hummed in his mouth. "Amma..." He needed Amma. He needed her sheltering embrace. "Amma!" His voice was only air.

But Amma heard, and whispered back in his ear, "What have you done, my sweet boy?"

"I struck the prince Findekáno," he told her in a breath of shame. "But he... he did..."

Amma sighed. "Is that so great a crime, to make you suffer this way? No, yondya. You must have done worse."

"Amma, that is it! I promise you."

Silence engulfed them, and everything was still. No Sindarin voices or ugly squeals of iron scraping iron could break that soundless moment. "It tears my heart to hear lies from the mouth of my own child," Amma said softly.

"I do not lie!" Glorfindel insisted.

"You abandoned your land and your people!" hissed Amma. "You abandoned your mother, your family, and your home!"

"I did not mean to..." Hot tears began to burn against frozen skin as he spoke.

"Did not mean to?" Amma laughed. "It was your own choice. You followed your father to this cursed land. And with what kindness has he thanked your dedication?"

None. The word rang unspoken in Glorfindel's thoughts. He had received no kindness from his ghost of a father. His search had come to nothing.

"You turned your back on Manwë," said Amma, her voice poisoned and hard.

And Glorfindel could have wept. There was nothing he could say against this: no excuse and no argument. He had abandoned his faith. At the first true test, he had despaired and cowered in the darkness of sacrilege. One thoughtless, weak moment, and he had discarded all the brightness of the world like garbage. It was too broken now to pick up again.

"This is why you suffer, my fair boy," Amma told him. "You left the grace of Manwë, and His blessing has left you. What are you without Him, but a shadow of a spirit without a purpose in the world? What do you have, but wretchedness and sorrow? This is what is left for you!" she shouted, and her howling voice filled the cell through to every crack in the stones. "No less than you deserve, to be hung from a wall, tortured for your blasphemy! No less than you deserve, to be chained here in agony in this land of heresy and sin! Ah, you struck a prince, you say. But what evil is that compared to turning on the Lord of all Arda? You have injured Him more far grievously with your doubt. That is a crime that deserves no forgiveness."

"I know! I know it!" he cried. "I know!" He screamed the words, over and over, above the ringing weight of Amma's accusations. And then he only screamed. Syllables melted into primitive noises, scratching their way free with claws of sharp sound until his throat was dry and raw and his voice was as weak as smoke. It made no difference, what he said or tried to say, or whether he begged or cried. Amma vanished as quickly as she came. Guards had no time for childish pleas among the hundred voices that echoed through the stale air

It seemed suddenly colder in that cell, to be so helplessly alone. The weight pressing into Glorfindel's chest grew heavier. "Manwë," he whispered hoarsely.

And then, reconsidering, "Findekáno."

Fingon was the only one with power enough to help him: the only name that held any hope. Manwë's compassion was lost. Now there was only Fingon.

~

Fingon's nose would always bear the evidence of Glorfindel's violence. He could see in his mirrored reflection, even through the swelling and yellowed bruise, a slight deviation from what had once been. He thought it suited him.

For years, since it had first become evident, people had remarked how Turgon was the fairest of Fingolfin's children. Everyone except Ammë, who liked Fingon best, always mentioned Turgon as the more attractive. He looked like his father. He had the same soft eyes and warm smile. Fingon took more after his mother's side, with an angular, Noldorin face. Turgon was beautiful, and Fingon was brilliant. That was how the compliments generally went. Fingon had often wondered, back then, what would have to change for him to be the beautiful one. His looks were too severe, he always decided. The lines of his face were too sharp. His nose was too straight.

And now, even though he insisted to himself that vanity was a pointless pleasure and there was no use in comparing himself to his brother, it was hard not to scrutinise the mirror for signs of positive change. The puffiness had subsided. It could fade entirely with time, but for the moment, just enough remained to take the hard edge off the bridge of his nose. If he turned as best he could to look at his profile, he could see a faint bump and shift in the angle of what had previously been starkly straight. He looked at the other side. It was nothing too drastically different. The change would be nearly imperceptible to any but one too familiar with the old sharpness. But still, somehow, this tiny alteration made an improvement.

"How does it feel?" the surgeon behind him asked.

"Fine," said Fingon.

"And you think it looks alright?"

Fingon nodded. "Mm. You did a very good job."

"It will always be a little crooked, through here... These things never set perfectly. Your nose was so wonderfully straight before."

"I don't mind," said Fingon. "In fact, I think it looks better than it did. Really." He gently ran a finger over the bruising. "This could start a new fashion, where people break their noses and have you reset them in more pleasing shapes."

The surgeon gave a stunted smile, uncertain of Fingon's sincerity. "Let me have a closer look at it." He leaned in, examining and prodding the swollen bridge with his fingertips, giving a soft "hmm" under his breath. Then he stepped back, assessing from the distance, and repeated, "Hmm."

"Good 'hmm' or bad?" asked Fingon.

"Good, certainly. I agree with you. The break did set well. There is that small bump, but it is hardly noticeable and does not sit as a flaw on you. My Lord, I say you are as beautiful as ever."

Fingon's stomach lurched. "What?" he hissed, and the word came out far more sharply than he intended.

The surgeon flinched. "I'm sorry. I spoke without leave."

"No," Fingon quickly added, "I didn't mean to sound so..." His voice trailed into silence. Had this surgeon read his mind, to say such a thing? Or was he merely an opportunist who had guessed from the shameless display of vanity that these were the words Fingon wanted to hear? Was he one to give undeserved compliments lightly? He, too, had a sharply Noldorin look; was the approval then based in narcissism? Or, strangest by far, did he honestly mean what he had said? All these thoughts crossed Fingon's mind in a flash of a second. He sighed. "Only you surprised me. I wasn't expecting that."

"You should expect it, Lord," said the surgeon, his voice low and even. "It is the fair truth."

"Oh," said Fingon. And for the first time in his memory, he was at a loss for what to say. "...Thank you," he managed. A glance passed between them: something dangerously unspoken. Fingon could only bear it a moment before he pulled his eyes away. "I should go," he said as he stood. "I shall call on you, if I need anything further."

The surgeon bowed. "Of course, my Lord. I will wait on your word."

And Fingon was out of the surgeon's room in the space of a breath. He shut the door behind him, leaning back against it as if to prevent whatever uncertainty lurked inside from escaping. Frivolous preoccupation with a surgeon would help him none. He needed to find Glorfindel.

The boy was still gone. It had been six days. By reason, he should have been found already. Two days gone was believable; three or four days gone meant someone, some servant or soldier somewhere, should have come across him in hiding. Six days gone meant there was cause to suspect that foul circumstances were involved. And the likelihood of Celeiros being behind that foulness was too great to ignore. It was time to have another discussion.

Celeiros could be found, as expected, haunting about near the salon, where Fingolfin was having his Sindarin lessons. He turned casually away when he saw Fingon approach. It was a sly attempt to escape, to lose himself conveniently in the constant movement of fortress life, but Fingon was too quick. He caught Celeiros by the sleeve at the top of the kitchen stairs.

"Walk with me a moment," he said. "We are going to talk over a few things."

"Of course, my lord," said Celeiros. "Only it must be brief. I am needed to approve the food selection for tomorrow's supper."

"We can be brief, or we can drag this on. It depends on your cooperation."

Celeiros' false smile quickly fell into a scowl. "If this is about your Vanyarin boy, I already said-"

"He has a name, you know. Where is he?"

"I already told you what I know. There's no use asking me again. I've not seen him since he went missing."

Fingon leaned back against the wall, slowly running his tongue over his teeth. His grip on Celeiros' sleeve remained firm. "You see," he said after a moment, "this is what troubles me. I did not ask you if you'd seen him, did I? I asked if you knew where he was."

"Humm," said Celeiros. The false smile crept nervously back across his face. "I see no difference there. A matter of mere wording. You understand what I meant, of course..."

"I understand that you are hiding something," Fingon answered. "You give me these roundabout excuses. I am going to ask you one more time, quite plainly, and I want you to answer in a single 'yes' or 'no'. Do you know where Laurefindil is?"

Celeiros' eyes flickered with uncertainty. "How am I supposed to know that, lord?"

"Yes or no."

"I've answered your question several times now, and you're being ridiculous to keep-"

The force of his body crashing against the stone wall was enough to knock the air out of Celeiros' lungs. The force of Fingon's arm crushing his neck was enough to prevent him from breathing in again. A look of panic shot through his widened eyes, matching his gaping mouth, and he kicked furiously in a bid to escape. The effort was useless; he was solidly pinned.

"Listen to me now," Fingon murmured into his ear. "In a few moments, without air, you will lose consciousness. I will let you fall to the floor. And I will leave you there, pathetically as you lie, at the mercy of all passing servants. Think to yourself: after all you have done for them, your dear Sindarin underlings, how will they treat you? Do you think they will be kind enough to respectfully let you be? Or is it better to assume that they will gleefully step on you and spit in your face for the benefit of their laughter? Would you like that?"

Celeiros shook his head, no.

"Then you will have to answer me. Your time is running out. A simple nod: yes or no. Do you know where Laurefindil is?"

Weakly, Celeiros nodded once, and then twice. His eyes darted to a far and dark corridor.

~ ~ ~ ~

It was shift-change for the gaolers; two finished, and two started, with half an hour of overlap. This time was meant to be used for official purposes, reviewing updated records and passing information, but more often than not the four guards opted instead for a quick game of cards around their dinner table. It had become a lazy workday tradition.

The man in last place, a single bad hand away from ending the game, was the first to see Fingon coming. He was also the only one with warning enough to stand and bow. By the time the three others leapt to their feet and lowered their heads, Fingon was at the tableside. A dreadful silence fell.

"I am here for my Vanyarin boy."

Two of the guards exchanged a glance. "Vanyarin boy?"

"Do not think to play stupid with me!" Fingon hissed. "One of your cells contains the only Vanyarin boy in this whole wretched land. I don't suppose you could have missed him. My Laurefindil, who was wrongly delivered to you six days ago by this worm." He jerked his elbow at Celeiros, who stood some steps behind, coughing and rubbing his throat as he edged his way back toward the stairs.

"Down this way, second from last," the nearest guard said quickly. "Sir."

"Unlock the cell. I am removing him from this place."

With a curt nod, the guard removed a ring of keys from its peg on the wall. He led the way through the smoky air and over the dirty, straw-covered floor of the corridor. Fingon followed closely, while on either side, faces peered out of the darkness to follow the spectacle of the King's son in the prison.

"Here," said the guard as he stopped to fumble with the keys.

Fingon froze where he stood. Even through the shadowy dark, the scene beyond that door burned as clearly as if it were lit by torches. Glorfindel hung on the wall like a dead thing while his blood stained the shackles and stones. His wrists and arms were painted in hideous rusty streaks. There was blood in his hair, matted against his skin. There was ice on the straw at his feet.

Slowly, Fingon turned away. He closed his eyes, and leaned back with a shuddering breath against the mesh of bars. "Is this some foul pit of the Enemy, that you must treat your prisoners so?"

The guards did not answer. One coughed, and another shuffled in place.

"Unchain him. Get him down from there."

"Surely you don't need us for that, Sir?" one asked smoothly. "Here is your specialty. You may use my sword. Just cut both his hands off this time."

In an instant, Fingon had whipped around to strike the man heavily across the jaw. "Do not pose such vile jests to me!" he shouted in fury. And he lashed out again, fist cracking against teeth. "I can find a better use for your sword, if it will help me strike your ignorant head from your neck! Give it to me!"

The guard, staggering and spitting from the blows, sunk to his knees.

"Give it to me!" Fingon repeated. "Give me your sword!"

"I am sorry, my Lord Prince, I am sorry, I spoke without thought-"

"Sword."

With a shaking hand, he unsheathed his sword and held it out for Fingon to take.

"Cut both his hands off," Fingon murmured. "If I am to do that, I must practice first. I have never done two at once, and I would not risk mangling my dear Laurefindil more than need be, though you have done an excellent job of that already... Cut both his hands off. That I shall. Hold out your arms."

The man's face went instantly white. "My Prince," he whispered. "Please do not-"

"I told you to hold out your arms, not beg for mercy. We can do that later, while I decide whether or not to kill you. Now I just want your arms out. Straight in front. Or I will aim for what I can reach, and that will be your head."

He choked on his breath, a sickly, gagging sound, as he held his shaking arms out in front of his body with the palms turned up in a silent appeal.

"Lord," said one of the other three. "Please. He did not mean it. He is a fool, true, but this is severe punishment for mere words. If you leave him be, I will make sure our captain has him whipped or put to hard labour. Please..."

Fingon did not answer, but raised the sword to shoulder height in preparation to strike. "Arms steady. Or I cannot guarantee my accuracy. I hope, for your sake, that you keep this sharp."

The three standing closed their eyes or covered their mouths. The shoulders of the one on the floor shook even as he fought to steady his arms. And Fingon swung the blade down, not in a full arc, but a shallow, stunted crescent. The sword's tip grazed the man's upturned palms to leave a stinging but harmless gash in each.

For a moment, the air was silenced by surprise. The kneeling guard, no longer shaking, stared in rigid shock as thin ribbons of blood began to crawl down over his wrists and around his thumbs. He curled his fingers slowly and uncertainly inward. Then, with a whimpering sob, pulled his hands close into his body to smother the wounds against each other under the comfort of his dirty cloak.

"I wouldn't cut your hands off, you witless pig's arse," Fingon said to him. "What use is a labourer that can't pick up a brick? You can help make roads until your manner improves." He tossed the sword aside and turned calmly to the others. "I thought I told you shits to unchain my Laurefindil."

The guard with the keys only nodded weakly, saying nothing as he crossed the cell and worked over the shackles with fingers made clumsy by speed. The iron bonds creaked as they opened. He lowered Glorfindel's limp body to the floor and stepped back, watching Fingon cautiously.

Fingon had sunk to his knees. He knelt in the filth of the dungeon, fouling his fine clothes on years of rotting straw and excrement. Slowly, he pulled off his cape. And before the uncertain eyes of guards and other prisoners craning to see, he wrapped the cape around Glorfindel's dirty form, picked the boy up, and carried him carefully out. He neither spoke to nor acknowledged anyone further as he passed.

* * *

_Yondya: 'my son' (Q, Vanyarin dialect)_


	5. Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Lauron-Nama', part (two). As a servant to Fingon in the court of Eithel Sirion, Glorfindel learns what is expected of him, what he must endure, and how he can turn it to his advantage. Slash. Adult rating has been applied for graphic sexual exploitation and coercion, drug and alcohol use, objectionable language, violence, brutality, and overall mature and very dark subject matter.

He might have been in Angband, to judge by the searing pain that flooded his skin. Everyone said the demons had such tortures there. In his dream, he had fallen into a black lake of burning oil, and he dared not open his eyes in fear of finding it the truth. But despite the fire, his body was shivering with such violence that his bones felt ready to crack as they shook. He inhaled with a gasp, and choked on the steamy air that filled his lungs.

"Laurefindil," said a voice at his ear. A familiar voice: Fingon's voice. "Can you hear me?" Then quietly, as if to somebody else, "Water."

A new, scalding wave swept up the side of Glorfindel's leg. He opened his eyes, fogged by steam and dizziness, and saw a grey figure pouring water from a kettle. Water, not oil; he was in Fingon's bathtub.

He spoke the only word he could think of, in a voice strangely dry for all the water swirling at his throat. "Hot."

"It will feel so," Fingon said. "You've been half frozen for six days. But it is not even hot enough to redden the skin. See." And Fingon put his hand beneath the kettle's spout, letting the boiling oil-water splash and swirl down to his wrist as if it were as cool as rain.

"Listen to me, Laurefindil. I need you to try to move your hands. I have called for the surgeon, and he will need to know the extent of your injuries. Make a fist if you can."

His hands... what was wrong with his hands? In the unbearable heat, only his hands did not burn. They felt no pain. In fact, they felt nothing at all.

"Move your fingers. Can you do that? Laurefindil? Try to touch your fingers to your palm"

Somewhere under the water, Glorfindel thought about where his hands should be, and tried to touch his fingers to his palms. Where fingers should have moved, he still felt nothing. He could feel his arms. The skin on his arms to his wrists stung in the searing heat. He could lift his arms, weakly, and let them float to the surface of the bathwater. 

"Try to move your hands," Fingon said again. "Any movement at all. You must try."

Above the water, he could feel where his hands should have been, though they no longer felt like hands at all. They were lifeless, hand-shaped weights stuck at his wrists, like brittle clay. 

"Laurefindil."

He pulled his arms in toward his chest, grey, clay hands following uselessly. No matter what he tried, or how, he could do nothing. He could move his feet, though with great pain; the muscles and bones felt splintered, like they had shifted into the wrong place. His legs were heavy and stiff, but he could force them to bend. His hands could do nothing. "I can't."

"Then can you feel your wrists at all?"

It took a moment to consider this. No, he decided at last. He could not feel his wrists, or bend them, any more than he could feel his hands or squeeze his fingers.

Fingon sighed, a rushed and worried breath of a sigh, and said, "Let me take your hand. The surgeon is on his way, but I will see..." He reached into the water and took one of Glorfindel's hands in his own. For the haze in his eyes, Glorfindel could not clearly see the movement. Nor could he feel the pressure of Fingon's grip. But he felt his arm being lifted.

"The iron of the bonds affected more than your skin," Fingon was telling him. "The flow of blood was cut. And if you cannot move your hands, it makes me fearful of what further damage might have been done. Tell me what you can feel." The flat pad of Fingon's thumb pressed firmly down on the inside of Glorfindel's forearm. "This?"

Glorfindel moved his head in as small a nod as possible. His skull pounded with the effort. Fingon's thumb slid along, down toward his wrist. He nodded again, and again at the next point. He could feel his arms. They burned in the water, and his shoulders ached fiercely at the slightest tensing or shifting, but he could feel them.

Again, Fingon sighed. "The surgeon's apprentice has gone to find him... I don't know what could be taking so long..."

With those words, as if they had been an incantation of summoning, the door flew open and a breathless youth stumbled in. "Surgeon's coming," he panted.

Fingon stood. "He's on his way?"

"No," said the boy.

"No?! What do you mean, no?!"

"I mean, he's coming later tonight. I told him you needed to see him, and it was urgent, as you said, and he replied that he was on his way to the bath and that he would come to you tonight. And then he... well, he seemed very pleased about being summoned, and asked me if I thought he looked better in blue or red. I said red, though I don't know what that had to do with anything..."

Fingon sat back down with a groan. "I can't believe the idiot thinks..." He let his head drop onto the edge of the bathtub, but only for a moment. When he lifted it up again, he reached for Glorfindel's hand. "Go back down there. I don't care if he's in the bath or at the bottom of the sea. Find him, and do not leave him until he realises that my Vanya is in great distress and needs a surgeon immediately. Make certain he understands that the boy is gravely injured, has lost too much blood, and is hardly conscious. He could just as easily die as live. This is not some stupid whim."

Despite the heat of the bath, a surge of ice ran down Glorfindel's back. He could just as easily die as live. He had lost too much blood. Was it true? The question rolled through his mind as he realised, with a shudder of dread, that the steam had a sickly, metallic edge to it. The scent of iron and copper stuck to his nose and coated his tongue. The water was a cloudy red-brown. "Findekáno..." he whispered.

"Go," Fingon told the surgeon's apprentice, and boy went with the speed of a bird.

"Findekáno," Glorfindel repeated. "Am I..."

"No," Fingon said quickly. "I only gave him that message so he would hurry. You will not die. I can promise you this. But if that ass of a surgeon doesn't come soon..." He sighed, and rubbed his hands over his face. "I can give you something for the pain, for now. A small help."

He left Glorfindel's side and went to the bedroom, returning moments later with something small and silver clutched in his hand. "Open your mouth."

Glorfindel did without a thought. Fingon knelt as he brought his hand close and, with a few shakes, dropped a trickle of something thick and earthy-tasting, like overripe vegetables and bitter birch sap, onto Glorfindel's tongue.

"Swallow it all as best you can. It will help you through this."

"Through... what?"  
  
Fingon did not answer, but shifted restlessly on his knees and pushed the damp hair back from Glorfindel's face. "Try to relax," he said, "and think of nothing. Try not to sleep, but don't pay this room any attention. Sing to yourself if you wish. Take your mind away. Though your body is here, your spirit needs not be. Do you understand?"

Nodding, Glorfindel tilted his head back against the rim of the bathtub and closed his eyes. He felt unbalanced and dizzy. Some churning sickness in his stomach threatened to flow up into his throat. But he steadied himself as best he could, willing his pounding head to quiet, and swallowed hard. The residue of Fingon's medicine still left its taste in the back of his mouth. He swallowed once more against it. And a familiar sensation began to tingle in his shoulders and neck.

Even through his hazy eyes, the colours of the room became brighter and the firelight shone so golden that Glorfindel was certain it channelled the brilliance of faded Laurelin. It was a peaceful light, and it calmed his head and clattering bones as he let it soak into his skin. The gold took away his pain. It took away his mind. Again, as it had done the night at Fingon's side, his mind was detaching from his body. This time, he welcomed the feeling like family.

"It is so bright," he said. "So perfect. Like an eternity of holiness."

"What is?" Fingon asked.

"The air. I can see Maiar in the air. Their faces and arms. There are four of them." Their bodies were airy and insubstantial, hardly more than shimmering outlines, but they were there. They did not smile or beckon to him, nor did they reflect Manwë's certain anger. They were simply there, like trees in a forest or fish in a pond. They were part of the world. Glorfindel guessed that somewhere, in the back of his mind, he had always known this. "I think they are watching us. Like we are mice."

"Good," said Fingon. "That's good. You should watch them back."

Fingon took his hand again, lifting it out of the water. It moved and hung limply like somebody else's hand; Glorfindel was too far away to feel. He closed his eyes and let his arm go with Fingon. He had no real need of it. In the dark of his head, he had a new, fluid body, and the air-shapes were more distinct.

"Don't worry," he told Fingon; "I can see them better with my eyes closed." Only he could not tell whether he had spoken the words aloud or just to himself. He heard them, but in his new head inside the old, detached head, and his mouth was too far away to tell him if it had moved.

He gave no thought to the sounds in his old ears: the murmur of Fingon's voice, the ripple-splash of water, the crackle of fire, the click of metal. He hummed to himself, passing the time and more time and minute after minute while the room waited for the surgeon. The glowing sound reverberated through his new body. A note could be held as long as he could think it, dragging time down to the pace of his lagging heartbeat. A little less, a little slower, and he could be free. He hummed a low note of slowness. The breath in his old body shuddered, the heart in his old body faltered, and his new body, liquid blue, stretched toward the glory of the sky.

"Laurefindil!"

Fingon's hand struck a sharp reminder across his shell of a cheek. The sound of it tethered him more than the feel; he was too far gone to register something as insignificant as a slap to the face. But he heard it, and Fingon's voice, through the murky distance that separated old ears from new.

"Laurefindil, I told you, do not sleep! Wake up! Keep your eyes open! Can you do that? Open your eyes!"

It took all his strength to do this simple thing. The old body was so tired, and the new so light and easy. He forced his old eyes open and stared, as if from the far end of a tunnel, at the unfocused shapes that waved and lurched around him.

"Sirio nen orden," Fingon said in blurring, word-like sounds. "Nen ring... Bôr anden tirifui." And it took Glorfindel a good moment to understand that Fingon spoke not to him. The words were Sindarin. Fingon spoke to a Sindarin someone: the man who had been pouring the kettle-water. But that he now said _sirio nen ring orden_ could only mean...

That flash of anticipation was worse than the shock of a bucket of cold water being thrown at his chest. He coughed and gasped more for what he thought he should feel than the dim chill feathering his faraway skin. But it was enough. Even the small cold, or the expectation of some grand cold, was enough to pull him back and open his eyes and awaken his voice. He shouted before the water hit him.

"Still!" said Fingon. Fingon did speak to him this time. "Do not move; you must stay still! Do not move your arms!"

His arms ached horribly as soon as Fingon mentioned them. Now that he was back in his body, even halfway, he could feel a heavy ache in his arms and a prickling sting in his wrists and fingertips. The recognition of what this meant nearly made him shout again. "Findekáno..." he said. "I can feel my hands!"

"Laurefindil," Fingon told him in a low but sharply warning voice, "do not move your arms. You must stay still. Stare at the ceiling, and do not move your arms!"

He did not move his arms. Even though the stinging persisted and intensified, he did not move them. But he looked. Through widened eyes and clearing focus, he glanced at his arms for reassurance, and felt suddenly sick at what he saw.

His hands were covered in blood. Not the dried, rust-brown mess left by the chains, but fresh, glistening red. It flowed down his arms and mingled in the bath water. His fingertips bled. His palms were sticky and shining. And his wrists, worst of all, had become some horror of twisted skin and bloody foulness with bits torn apart and pieces cut raggedly away.

And Fingon held the knife.

~

What happened after that, he could not remember. Whether he had fainted, or had remained awake but blocked the memory, or had been given more of the sleeping drug by Fingon, he simply could not recall. But the next thing he knew after seeing all his blood trickling into the bath, he was squinting groggily against the blazing white light of late morning and straining for breath. Some heavy weight was crushing his chest. Fingon's arm.

When he tried to move and sit upright, he found he could not, wrapped tightly as he was in a sort of cocoon of sheets and quilts. His arms were pinned at his sides. The best he could manage was a feeble squirm, which accomplished nothing. So he lay quiet, head still in pain, body still aching, wrists still stinging, though none of it as acutely as he remembered from the night before. He worked at slowly and deliberately trying to pull his arms free. He needed to see his hands.

Beside him, Fingon made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a groan as he shook himself awake. "Laurefindil?"

Glorfindel coughed in reply, and found himself suddenly hesitant to talk.

Fingon groaned again, shifting onto his side and into a better position to pull Glorfindel free of the blanket roll. "I'm sorry," he said; "it's wrapped rather tightly. You were shaking so badly after we pulled you from the bath that I didn't know what else to do. Turn this way and I can unwrap it. But don't move too much; the air is cold enough to lay frost on the bed this morning, and no-one has come to stoke the fire."

The bed curtains were open, Glorfindel noticed, which was why the light seemed so much brighter than usual. This left nothing between him and Fingon and the bitter winter wind that seeped through cracks in the walls and windows. The sheer cold of it was enough to sting his nose and take his breath away if he lifted his head too far from the warmth of his pillow. He could see the fog of his breath in the frozen air.

Fingon must have guessed these thoughts, because his next words were, "I should have closed the curtains. After I carried you here I lay down as well to keep you warm, and it was so late by that time and I so exhausted by everything that I must have fallen asleep without thinking to have the curtains closed to keep us warmer..."

He sat up and knelt at the sides of the bed to close the curtains, fingers fumbling with the ties in the cold, and Glorfindel could see that he still wore his day clothes. The sleeves were stained with dried blood. With a turn of sickness in his stomach and a stinging pain in his wrists at the sight, Glorfindel pulled his arms free of the last folds of blankets. His hands were bandaged. Shreds of white linen, spotted rusty red and brown, covered all skin from the tips of his fingers to halfway down his forearms. It had been hastily wrapped with twists and knots. Uselessly, he rubbed his bound hands together in a stubborn effort to loosen the ties.

"Don't," Fingon said quietly. He crawled back across the bed and under the covers, bringing cold air with him. "Leave that. The bandages should stay for now, until you've had more time to heal."

"I want to see."

"You don't want to see. Your hands should remain bandaged until-"

"I want to see."

Fingon sighed. "Laurefindil... This needs to heal. Please listen to me. The iron bonds that chained you to that wall twisted and ruined your wrists and hands. But they also cut the flow of blood. With no blood, your hands became like something dead, cold and grey when I carried you from the dungeon. It is a wonder that warmth and life have returned at all, but I think you will always have some small trouble to move your fingers or hold things tightly now. So your hands are spared in that way. But the skin at your wrists was beyond hope, and had to be cut away before it started to rot and poison your body."  
  
He took a breath, long and slow, and stared at the bed's canopy as he continued. "The surgeon did not come. And I could not wait for him when you were in such distress. The wounds on your wrists did not bleed, which worried me. It meant the skin was already dead. I had to... cut the dead skin until blood returned to the living tissue underneath. Where there is blood flow there is life, and I could then force it into your hands. But now I do not want to risk taking the bandages off until I know enough time has passed for the raw wound to heal over. So you must leave it, at least for now. Later we can see."

Glorfindel had to settle for staring at the patterns of stains on the linen and guessing what they might conceal. The warnings about the state of his hands and wrists had the opposite effect from what Fingon intended. He wanted more than anything now to see them, and see what damage had been done. But as he opened his mouth to insist, Fingon spoke again.

"I almost killed those guards, you know."

"...What?"

"I almost killed them. I wanted to. I had to close my eyes and clench my hand around the edge of my sleeve to keep from reaching for the nearest sword and slashing them all across the heart. When I saw you chained as you were to that vile wall. Who told them to have you there? I will have his blood at my feet."

In his honest memory, Glorfindel could not recall. That whole sequence of events had passed too quickly, and he could only remember the buzzing presence of speech as they pulled him into the cell, not actual words. "I don't know," he said. "Maybe Alkarossë told them, or maybe they decided on their own. I can't remember."

"I'm sure it was that shit-rat. To torment me." Once more, Fingon took a long and slow breath. "Have you heard about my cousin? Maitimo?"

Glorfindel had heard the name. He had heard snide stories and jokes, the punch line of which always turned out to be something on the subject of Finwëan family morals, and he had heard enough sly references to know the truth about the relationship between Fingon and his cousin. He had heard that Maedhros had been imprisoned at Angband, and that Fingon, somehow, had braved the dangers and curses of Morgoth to rescue him. But none of this seemed relevant to what Fingon now said. And so he answered, "I have heard some."

"Did you know that he has only one hand?" Fingon asked. "His right is missing."

"I didn't know."

"He was taken captive in battle soon after he came into the east, and imprisoned in the pits of Angamando. And when I arrived in Hisilómë, I set out to find him, and save him. But you know a person cannot walk through the gates of that evil place and simply reclaim lost friends... So I searched the surrounding mountains for any tunnel or secret doorway that would lead me to the prisons. There was nothing to find. Those cliffs are walls of sheer, solid rock, with never so much as a hairline crack to weaken them. I walked in that maze of cliffs for thirteen days, through smoke and fog and rain, until I heard his voice and was drawn to a sight that filled me with hope and then, immediately, hopelessness.

"He had been chained to a cliff wall high overhead by a single bond on his right wrist. Later he told me he had been there for eleven days. The foul things of the north knew I searched among their mountains for my cousin, and they placed him where they knew I would find him but thought I could not reach him: where I would have to leave him to die or kill him myself to end his agony. But they underestimated the Powers of the West. And I was allowed to free him, though only by cutting off his hand. The shackle was too strong for me to break. But he lived. I saved his life by ruining his body.

"So you can guess what I felt when I saw you chained the same way, by your wrists, and that witless prison guard told me to cut both your hands off this time... At least those shackles could be unlocked. Though I'm plagued now by thoughts of what I could have done differently for Maitimo. I saved your hands, when his was not so much worse. I cut too easily, thinking it for the best, when I could have tried harder. I could have tried to chip the rock that held the bond, and free the anchor..." He shook his head to clear away these thoughts. "It's stupid to dwell on the past. It can't be changed. He's alive, and you're alive, and I suppose that's what matters."

Glorfindel shook his head as well, trying to dispel unwanted thoughts of Fingon's one-handed cousin and the idea of being so freed from a bond. He did not notice he was rubbing his hands together, subconsciously reassuring himself that both were still there, until Fingon reached under the covers to hold them still. He looked at the shape they made beneath the blankets. "I still want to see. I have to. I need to know what it looks like."

"Why would you want to know that? It is hardly healed yet and-"

"I still need to know," he said firmly.

Fingon held his gaze a moment before shakily agreeing, "Alright."

Carefully, they undid the knots, or at least Fingon undid the knots while Glorfindel held out his arms. The linen fell away strip by strip to reveal what Glorfindel both needed and feared to see: hands cold and half alive, spotted with blood, and a wide band of partially-healed red where the skin had been scraped and cut away up to the base of his thumb. It cracked and stung if he moved his wrists. He could move his fingers only slowly, and could squeeze his fist with hardly strength enough to crush a flower. 

"How will it heal?" he whispered to Fingon.

"Sorry?"

"How will it heal? Will there be a scar?"

"With that much damage, it would be impossible for it to heal over and be perfect as it was before," Fingon said. "The cuts on your hands should leave few marks, if any, but you will have scars around your wrists in rings as you see now."

"Oh..." said Glorfindel. He could think to say nothing more. His wrists would be scarred in hideous bands of ruined and corded flesh. For the rest of his life, he was marred. In the eyes of Manwë, he was marred. First abandoned, and now this. He lifted his arms slowly, tucking his wrists under his chin and feeling the hard scabs against his neck, and closed his eyes to contain the sudden rush of tears that threatened to fall. "I can't," he choked.

"You can't...?" 

"Can't. Have scars. I can't."

"You take this too hard," Fingon softly told him. "It is a shock to see it now, I know, but it will heal better than this. You will have scars, yes, but is that so terrible? Scars happen. Regard any soldier and you will see the lines of battle on his face or arms or chest. Yours will be no worse."

"No, you don't understand." Frustrated, he could only shake his head. It was impossible to explain to Fingon, who knew nothing of how much grief one little burn on the back had caused his forefather Maringor, or even how much his grandfather had moaned over the ghosts of paper cuts that marked his fingers. His grandfather wore gloves when visiting better parts of the city. Maringor never removed his shirt. How was Glorfindel to live, then, if he could not show his wrists? Sleeves could slip back. If he stretched his arm too far, a scar could peek out beyond his cuff. And he was not allowed to show it.

"I can't show any scar," he said. "I cannot show any scar or burn or cut or... I can't. Any imperfection in the body must be hidden. By Manwë's law, skin is meant to remain intact and unaltered. To show anything else is an insult to Eru and the Valar who made this world."

"Do you really think Manwë is so unforgiving?" Fingon asked.

He nodded, moving his chin as little as possible against his hands.

"I don't. But I do think that what you consider to be the law of Manwë is full of contradictions. Right now, I can see that you have your ears pierced. The skin of your earlobes is clearly not intact or unaltered, and-"

"That's different," Glorfindel interrupted. "That's done for the purpose of wearing decoration to glorify the Valar at festival time."

"It's no different. There are other contradictions besides that I could list for you, but what you need to realise is that it is not Manwë who is insulted by scars, and it is not Manwë's law that might prevent you from showing them, but Ingwë's. Ingwë is the one who wrote the law and who is so terrified of imperfection in himself that he must govern others to suit his insecurity. So do not think that Manwë will hate you for this. I cannot believe He would be so cold."

When Glorfindel did not answer, Fingon slid in closer, urgently running his hands over Glorfindel's shaking arms. "Listen. There is another part to the story of my cousin that I did not tell you, and that I tell very few people, because they would dismiss it as fanciful nonsense if I did. But I was not acting alone in my rescue. When I first saw Maitimo bound to the cliff, I could not see or think of any way to save him. Nor could I leave him there to suffer. All I could do, I thought, was kill him myself and end his pain. So I drew my bow and said a prayer to Manwë to guide my arrow straight to my cousin's heart, to kill him quickly. But before I could shoot, the cry of an eagle filled the air. The sound of it was enough to make me fall to my knees in wonder. One of the great birds of the mountains, a servant to Manwë himself, came to land at my side. I could climb onto his back like I would a horse and, like a horse, guide him up the cliff face to where Maitimo was trapped. So Manwë's love, in the shape of that eagle, saved my cousin's life even when I thought we were utterly abandoned. And this is why I can never believe He is impotent or unjust, as so many Noldor claim, or vengeful and demanding as you Vanyar think. I have seen His grace firsthand. And I will never dishonour it."

It was meant, Glorfindel knew, to be a reassurance. It was meant to soothe him with a promise of compassion. But the only thought that pounded in his head was one of judgement. Manwë had saved the life of Fingon's cousin-lover. Manwë had answered Fingon's prayer. Glorfindel was the one who had shown unwavering devotion, ever since he was old enough to think and speak, and yet of everyone in the world, Manwë had chosen Fingon. For one error, Glorfindel had received a dead bird and a closed eye, while someone like Fingon was blessed by divine light.

He no longer cared. It was all proof enough of the inconstancy of the Valar, and it mattered none. He shook his head, closing his eyes, and banished the thought. If Manwë had sided with Fingon, there was nothing further he needed to consider. He felt hollow, but calm.

"Laurefindil?"

"Hm?"

"Are you alright? You look..."

"I'm fine," Glorfindel said. "Just hungry."

Fingon ran a hand over his hair, carefully tucking it behind his ear. "I'll fetch you some soup."

~

He did not leave the bedroom for the next five days. Oropher came in to visit at Fingon's grudging consent, which Glorfindel supposed was indicative of Fingon's concern for his wellbeing, and they shared candies by the fire. He kept his wrists covered at all times. Only his fingers showed past the cuffs of too-long sleeves on too-long robes borrowed from Fingon, and Oropher saw neither the bandages nor the scars hidden beneath, and Glorfindel did not talk about them.

Left alone, he either slept like a stone or paced about Fingon's bedroom and bathroom like an agitated cat. He ate when Fingon brought him food, and bathed when Fingon had the tub filled, and otherwise allowed his life to be dictated by Fingon's routine. He never tried to leave. He would not show his face, or his scars, in the tower halls and corridors to be stared at by mannerless onlookers. It was a certain thing that they would all know his story by now; Fingon's dungeon heroics were the new topic of choice about court, according to Oropher. He would not leave. Everything he wanted was in the two rooms. Besides, it was cold away from the fire, and Glorfindel had developed a deep mistrust for anything as foreign and northerly as snow.

He was sitting in a chair by the fire, wrapped in blankets, when Fingon came up at the end of the fifth day.

"I have something for you."

"Food?"

Fingon shook his head. "No, but that's on its way. Here."

From under his arm, he handed Glorfindel a tightly wrapped bundle of blue fabric with hints of fur showing between the folds, which Glorfindel opened with a hitch in his breath. A wide, fur-lined cape unrolled over his knees and onto the floor.

"I hope that should be enough to keep you warm away from your place by the fire," said Fingon.

"You had it made for me," Glorfindel murmured. He lifted the collar to his chin, letting the cape cover his body. The fur still smelled of animals. It would have disgusted him once, back in Valmar when he was foolish enough to care about such trivial things as goodness and morality, but now he found it oddly pleasing. Fingon had ordered this extravagant thing made just for him. It made him smile.

"I had originally commissioned it for me," Fingon admitted. "But I recently decided you had greater need than I. So I had Armion change the fabric from black to blue. These, though, are entirely for you. Hold out your arms."

Fingon knelt on the floor at Glorfindel's side, loosening the bandages while Glorfindel held his arms still. The skin at his wrists had mostly healed. But it had hardened into scars in twisted ways; it was no longer brown but red like a burn across the tops of ridges, and whiter than Noldorin skin in the valleys between. It felt ready to crack if he bent his hand too far. This was the new shape of his body, and he could not bear to look at it. His eyes remained closed as Fingon let the bandages fall to the floor. Then, with a click of metal, he felt a gentle weight closing around his wrists.

Gold glinted back at him when he blinked. Not a cheap, brassy alloy as he used to see in Valmar, but true gold, and enough of it to make his mouth fall open in wonder. Gold covered his scars completely: one wide band on each wrist. The surfaces had been etched with fine patterns of circles and lines, catching the light, and the insides were lined with something soft. No hint of damaged skin showed above or below those perfect gold bracelets.

"You will never have to see your scars, so long as you wear these," said Fingon. "A poor substitute for flawless skin, but the best I can do."

"Thank you," Glorfindel whispered. He turned his hands over and back, watching the rings of metal from hinge to clasp as they sat so beautifully on his arms that he would have guessed they were always meant to be there. Then he slid from the chair, fur cape trailing behind, down to the floor and into the sheltering warmth of Fingon's embrace.

Fingon took care of him now. As long as he stayed with Fingon, he would never again feel pain or misery. It was a small price to pay. He knew, as he watched the Sindarin boys bring in a supper tray of hot food, that he would never be hungry as long as he remained under Fingon's protection. And he knew, as he watched the Sindarin boys shiver in their thin coats, that he would never be cold. As long as he stayed with Fingon, he would never be at the mercy of the world. He would never wander helplessly. He would never go without. Fingon took care of him now.

"It was Alkarossë," he said quietly. "I told him you would not want me in that cell, but he ignored my words. I asked him to go to you, to ask if that was what you intended, but he refused. He wouldn't listen, even when I told him you would be displeased. It was all Alkarossë's fault. I hate him."

Fingon, stroking Glorfindel's hair and breathing silent warmth against his cheek, said, "I will set it right."

~

Glorfindel dressed late the next morning, after Fingon left. He watched how the gold at his wrists shone as he pulled on his best clothes, and fastened the high collar of the fur cape snugly around his neck. Then he walked downstairs like a prince.

The main hall of Barad Eithel was in chaos. Glorfindel could hear the din as he came down to the third floor, and it grew only louder as he approached the ground: a violent clash of sounds, as if a battle had erupted right there among the flags and pillars. The Sindarin servants had gone mad. No-one had been terribly hurt, as far as Glorfindel could see from where he stood frozen on the third step from the bottom; clothing had been torn and a bloodied lip or blackened eye could be seen here and there, but the mood on the whole was one of joy and celebration rather than anger. The few Noldorin lords and merchants who had the ill fortune to be in the tower that morning were flattening themselves against the walls in shock as the riot exploded. Oropher was situated right in the thick of it.

One of his coat sleeves had been ripped halfway off by the time Glorfindel, who was careful to keep clear of any very large brawls out of fear for the well-being of his cape, found him. His hair was in a disarray, as if someone had grabbed him by the side of the head, and his brow sported a great purpling bruise. He was yelling something that did not sound like any discernable words.

"Oropher!"

Turning, Oropher saw Glorfindel and gave a wide grin. "Oi, you came down finally! What you dressed like that for?"

"This is how decent people dress," Glorfindel answered. He frowned at Oropher's torn sleeve. "What in the world is going on here?"

"Jolly, isn't it? I don't know what started, but when I came down for breakfast there were people dancing and singing, and I reckon somebody shoved somebody else because then there were people fighting and shouting, and soon they were breaking things and throwing what they'd broke. But now it's more just fun, only some roughing around, and nobody's came to stop it yet!" He paused long enough to gesture to the few boys close by. "Us few here made up a new game."

"Which is?"

"Seeing what we can break using just our heads," he said, proudly showing Glorfindel the shards of what had once been an earthenware jug. "I did that one."

"Oh," said Glorfindel.

"You want to have a try?"

To the right, a large and dim-looking youth was stubbornly knocking his head against a log the size of his arm, cheered on by fellows who whistled and whooped every time it cracked a little more.

"No, I don't think I shall," Glorfindel said.

"Ooh-hoo!" said a boy of roughly Oropher's age. "Princess be too good to play with us!" Oropher elbowed him in the gut, and he fell about sputtering.

Glorfindel shook his head. "I'll find you tomorrow, if all this stops. The noise is terrible."

"I hope it never does," said Oropher. As he spoke, the dim boy's log cracked clear in half, to a chorus of excited yelps. Oropher sighed. "Guess he wins."

Glorfindel left then, before he could be coaxed into banging his head against some banner pole or chair leg, and wove back through the hollering, crashing and bullying crowd to the ornate door that led to the King's salon. The door was unlocked.

"There is a terrible roistering out in the hall," he said as he stepped inside, giving a quick bow to the King. "Things will be destroyed."

Fingolfin, who had a book clutched in his hands and had pressed himself so stiffly into his chair that it looked as if he never planned to leave, said, "I know."

"What happened?"

"I don't know. Alkarossë was not about at breakfast to keep things in line, and they just... went wild like dogs. Nobody can stop them. It is his duty to keep the order, and he is doing nothing. It's madness."

"Alkarossë is otherwise engaged," said Fingon.

"How so?"

Fingon sat a bit straighter, reaching forward to take a bread roll from the table before him, and shrugged. "He is otherwise engaged. I found a thing for him to do, and he is doing it. He is unavailable for herding Sindar."

Where the main hall had grown warm with activity, the walls of the salon were cold and seemed colder when the wind howled against the window. Glorfindel took a chair near the fire. He was hungry; no-one had come with breakfast that morning after Fingon left, so he situated himself directly between the fire and the food table. As Fingolfin narrowed a disapproving eye, he took a boiled egg from the plate and dipped it in salt. Never in his life had he eaten an egg. It was like a forbidden thrill to defiantly try it now. Carefully, he bit the top, and immediately spat it back out into his hand.

"Son of a donkey, that's vile! How's one expected to eat these?!"

"I rather like them," Fingolfin said coldly.

"Ech, it tastes like the smell of turned paint, feels like solid oil, and smells like a privy!" Spitting again, he tossed it into the fire, while Fingon laughed and choked on his bread. "I'm not eating them. I'll stay with vegetables."

"Oh, honestly," said Fingolfin. "It's hardly that bad." And before Glorfindel could speak again, he continued, "Is there any hope of getting the hall back in order?"

Fingon shook his head. "No, not until tomorrow, I'd guess."

"I'm sure that whatever you told Alkarossë to do can wait until later. As soon as everything is in control-"

"I told you, he is otherwise engaged," Fingon interrupted. "This means that he is unavailable. Order will have to wait until tomorrow."

"My servant is missing," said Fingolfin. "He is somewhere in that great rabble, probably damaging himself. What am I supposed to do about that?"

"I think he should be fine," Glorfindel said. "They've invented a new game where they break things with their heads, and his is very hard."

Fingolfin went pale. "You see, he will damage himself! Findekáno, I demand you put a stop to this riot at once. Find Alkarossë, and tell him to stop it."  
  
"You may tell him yourself. I am too comfortable here." As if to prove his point, he took a piece of apple, tossed it into the air, and caught it in his mouth. "He's at the inner gate, if you want to find him."

"Doing what?"

"Being otherwise engaged."

As he tossed another piece of apple, Glorfindel was certain he saw Fingon wink. "I will go," he said abruptly. He stood and faced Fingolfin, who had squirmed in his chair at the thought of leaving the safety of the salon. "I will go find Alkarossë. That is part of my duty to Findekáno as retainer, is it not? To relay instructions?"

Fingon raised the half-eaten bread roll to him in salute, but Fingolfin seemed less convinced. "I suppose..." he said slowly. "It is a duty that might fall to you, yes. And if you are willing..." With a sigh, he nodded. "Go, then. Find Alkarossë and impress upon him that I expect this 'roistering', as you call it, to be ended by sunset, and all in order. Make it very clear to him what must be done, on my authority."

"I shall," said Glorfindel.

He left the salon to find the main hall no less noisy or violent than it had been before. To the left, two boys had picked up a third by his legs and were spinning him round for the amusement of a barking dog. To the right, someone had tugged down his friend's breeches before a pair of laughing girls. Ahead, two more boys were conducting a swordfight of sorts with their piss. Glorfindel did his best to ignore them all and quickly pass by on his way to the front of the fortress and the inner gate.

This was the source of the chaos. It was no less noisy here, but instead of brawling and causing havoc, the Sindar gathered at the gate had formed a ring about the centre of the corridor, where they laughed and jeered and howled and threw rubbish. And within their circle was Celeiros. As Glorfindel pushed his way to the front, he could see that Celeiros had been stripped naked but for a scrap about his waist for decency, and his back was marked with welts and stripes. He was chained at the wrists and ankles as he scrubbed the floor, stone by stone, with dirty water.

The yelling grew no quieter as Glorfindel stepped into the ring, but the watchers threw no spoilt food at him. Instead they jeered at Celeiros for the one come to mock him further. The only acknowledgement Celeiros gave was a brief faltering in his movement. Otherwise, he kept his eyes hard on the floor. Glorfindel came to where he knelt, bent down, and whispered in a voice soft enough for no other to hear. "Know now, Alkarossë," he said, "that you are here on my account. You are suffering here because of me, humiliated because of me, and beyond help because of me. By disregarding my words, you disregarded the wishes of our Prince. This is why you are punished. Now you must know that to defy me is to defy Findekáno, and where does that leave you? I think you can see. So please remember this for the rest of the days of Arda: you are here on my account. And if you ever cross me again, you will find yourself in a worse place than this."

Celeiros said nothing. Glorfindel stood up straighter, pushed his hair back, and spoke again, though this time in Sindarin and loudly enough to be heard by all. "The King wishes you to regain control of the main hall, when you are finished your present duty. You have until this evening. Report to him when it is done."

He turned then and left, up from the gate and back to the tower stair. Either he walked with greater purpose and bearing, or he was simply noticing what he had never marked before, but the Sindar stood back with a deferential nod to let him pass. None shouted crude words to him, or butted roughly against his shoulder, or stumbled stupidly into his way and blocked his path. Some little detail had turned in his favour.

And he thought to himself, as he crossed the hall amid curious eyes, that this was where he was meant to be. He had come to his role in the world. As long as he stayed with Fingon, he would never be without power.

* * *

_Sirio nen [ring] orden; bôr anden tirifui- (S) Pour [cold] water over him; he must remain alert._


End file.
